


Any Semblance of Touch

by saltnhalo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (kinda), 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Case Fic, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Magical Realism, Man of Letters Dean Winchester, Minor Violence, New York City, No Homophobia, Psychometric Cas, Psychometry, Speakeasies, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25813549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo
Summary: 1925, New York.Dean Winchester’s life’s work is protecting the world from the supernatural relics that could destroy it. When an amulet with the power to control the tides is shipped to New York, he must intercept it before it can be used to devastating effects. This time, in order to succeed, he needs a powerful psychometric… and the only one available has sworn off the magical world altogether.Castiel Novak’s gift comes with great risk. To protect himself, he’s become a recluse, redirecting his magic into museum research. But with the city’s fate hanging in the balance, and faced with the power of Dean’s charm and persuasion…He can’t force himself to say no.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 132
Kudos: 396
Collections: Destiel Harlequin Challenge 2020





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Wowee, people! I feel like I've been writing this fic for years, so it's so nice to finally be able to share it with y'all! (I haven't actually been writing it for years, but by god, it's felt like it. What a year.)
> 
> This fic was written for the Destiel Harlequin Challenge--thank you to the mods, and to [c-kaeru](https://c-kaeru.tumblr.com/), my wonderful collaborative partner who produced some absolutely beautiful works! An extra thank you to [cap](https://captainhaterade.tumblr.com/) and [FriendofCarlotta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta/)for beta-reading.
> 
> Show some love to the art masterpost [here](https://c-kaeru.tumblr.com/post/626056119485431809/heres-the-art-i-made-for-any-semblance-of-touch/)!
> 
> Enjoy! <3
> 
> (Disclaimer: I am not American, and I also just do not have the patience for in-depth research. If you read this and find some historical or New York-related error, please keep it to yourself. Thank you!)

The docks are busy and bustling, full of people ready to travel, loading goods on and off ships, or trying to hawk their wares—the usual scene for a Thursday at noon. It’s easy to go unnoticed in a place like this, where everyone has a story and somewhere to be, and that’s what makes it perfect.

Dean Winchester winds his way through the crowds, keeping his head low and an eye out for his informant. The sooner he can find him, the better, because he can already feel his time starting to slip through his fingers, and he can’t afford to be late. Not today.

After a few minutes spent surreptitiously searching the crowd, he catches sight of a man standing by the gangplank of one of the ships. Trying not to be too obvious, Dean wanders his way over, sidestepping a porter loaded high with luggage and striding over a puddle that the few people behind him are not quite so lucky to dodge.

“I hope you’ve got the goods for me,” he tells the man in lieu of a greeting—he’s got the money, Spencer has the information, and that’s all their friendship will ever need to run successfully.

Spencer gives him an unimpressed look and holds out his hand. When Dean places a handful of cash into it, he quickly tucks it away.

“Hello to you too,” Spencer mutters, then juts his chin up the gangplank towards the ship. “It’s in that one there. Turn right on the deck, take the first door, ladder down to the hold and then second door on your left. No guards that I’m aware of, but there’s probably other bullshit in there that you’ll have to watch out for.”

And _that’s_ why Dean pays him the big bucks.

“Much appreciated,” he says with a grin, clapping Spencer on the shoulder before stepping past him and making his way up the gangplank. He has to move quickly, in case there are other people after the same thing he is—someone paid to have it shipped to New York, after all, so Dean isn’t the only one who’s caught wind of its existence.

When he pauses at the top of the gangplank and looks back, Spencer is gone, already disappeared into the crowd. In just a few minutes, Dean will be following suit, hopefully with his goal tucked safely into the pocket of his waistcoat.

But there’s not much time left to lose.

Dean follows Spencer’s instructions to the letter—right, first, down, second on the left, watch out for any ‘other bullshit’—until he finds himself stepping into one of the storage rooms in the hold.

It’s clear what he’s looking for: the big case in the middle of the room, walled in glass and braced by steel, with a velvet cushion sitting directly in the centre. There’s a heavy padlock hanging from the front of the case, but that’s not Dean’s biggest concern right now.

His concern is that the padlock is _open_ , and the amulet that was meant to be nestled atop the velvet cushion is gone.

_Fuck_.

“Guess I wasn’t the first one here, after all,” he muses to himself as he stares at the infuriatingly empty case. “Well, that sucks.”

_That sucks_ is an understatement. Of all the magical treasures that Dean has found and safely stored away, where no one can misuse or maltreat them, this one is easily in his top ten. A magical amulet capable of controlling the tides, located in the fastest-growing city in the world, which happens to be only a few feet above sea level?

He has to find wherever it’s gone, and _quick_.

Up above, someone on the top deck yells, and Dean can hear the sound of running footsteps. “Well, that’s my cue to leave,” he says to no one in particular, mostly to calm his own rising anxiety. He’s desperate to have a look around the store room to try and figure out just who the hell took the amulet, and _how_ , but right now he’s out of time.

From the store room, it’s easy to slip back out the door and find a conveniently open porthole—he doesn’t need to guess as to how the other thieves managed to get onto the ship without him or Spencer seeing, it seems.

As he’s hoisting himself through the open window, though, Dean catches sight of something caught on the hinge. It’s a single scrap of black fabric, torn at the edges as though it was ripped off by someone making their way out of the porthole in a hurry.

“Huh,” he says to himself as he reaches for the fabric, carefully unpicking it from the grip of the hinge and examining it for a moment. There’s not much he can discern from it, but if the gossip of New York City’s magical underworld is correct…

He might be able to find someone who _can_.

“Stop right there!”

But right now, hanging out a porthole off the side of a ship, with (more than a few, by the sound of things) armed guards looking for whoever stole his prize, is not the smartest spot to be in. Dean quickly tucks the fabric into his waistcoat, then pulls himself the rest of the way out of the porthole. From there, it’s not hard to shimmy down the side of the ship, holding onto window coverings and metal seams and whatever else will get him safely back onto the dock.

One last leap, and Dean’s feet make contact with the solid concrete of the wharf once again. He can still hear the guards on the ship shouting after him as they try to find whoever made off with the amulet, but both they and Dean may as well be long gone. He disappears into the crowd with ease, blending in effortlessly even as he starts to plan his next move.

It’s time for Dean to find himself a psychometric.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel’s mornings always start with a cup of tea.

His brownstone is large enough that _acquiring_ the tea is usually quite a process, which is why, every morning, he makes his way down to the kitchen in a bathrobe and pair of fuzzy slippers, blinking blearily at the world and wishing he were still in bed. For anyone else, the journey from bed to kitchen in _Castiel’s_ house would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but for Castiel, the ancient, priceless artifacts that he keeps in his house are just another mundane reminder of what his life used to be life.

Not that he looks back on those memories with fondness, though—it hadn’t taken him long to realise that his particular set of powers made him quite highly sought after, to recognise the extent to which he was being _used_ , and to, quite frankly, get the hell away from the magical relics industry.

He does still like to keep some of the things he’s found and read in his house, for a variety of reasons. Some have sentimental value, some he went to great efforts to find and subsequently steal from his less-than-ethical-ex-employers, and others… well, they just tell some truly incredible stories.

But Castiel is a psychometric treasure hunter no longer. Instead, his oddities gather dust in his large, empty house, while he drinks tea and squints grumpily down at the morning paper as part of his pre-work routine.

His new job might not pay as well, or be quite so glamorous, but working at the museum pays the bills and keeps him just interested enough to keep going with it. The objects he deals with haven’t caused empires to fall or been handled by ancient, long-forgotten kings, but they’re interesting enough. The most complicated part is trying to hide his gifts from his regular colleagues. Some of the discoveries he’s made about the dinosaur bones the museum possesses have been… somewhat difficult to cover up and explain away using proper archaeological theories.

Still. The work has proven interesting, and no one has threatened his life so far or tried to manipulate him into using his powers for evil or unethical monetary gain. Some would say that’s worth a little boredom and a pay cut.

There isn’t much of interest in the newspaper—just another speakeasy that has been discovered, along with an article about some kind of commotion down at the docks—so Castiel sets it aside. The man who had delivered the paper had not been of the kindly disposition, and so Castiel isn’t overly interested in keeping his hands on it for much longer.

Instead, he focuses on his breakfast and his tea, and lets his mind wander. His crockery is something he’s possessed for long enough that many of the memories associated with it have faded, and so he’s able to just let his mind drift without the conscious effort of blocking that is required with other things. All in all, it’s a lovely start to his day.

Until the knock on the door.

Castiel pauses with his teacup halfway to his lips and stares in the general direction of his front door. Who could possibly want to talk to him, considering it’s only just past eight in the morning on a Thursday?

He ignores it in the hopes that the person will go away, and sips at his tea once more.

But the knock comes again—louder and more impatient this time.

“For goodness’ sake,” Castiel mutters under his breath, setting his teacup down with a little more force than he perhaps should have. He shoves his chair back from the table and grumbles to himself as he makes his way downstairs—grateful that for once, he decided to get dressed _before_ breakfast, instead of eating in his dressing gown like he does most mornings.

“Can I help you?” he bites out as he yanks the door open and squints against the sudden sunlight. Whoever this is, they’d better have a damn good reason for interrupting the sanctity of his breakfast routine.

As his eyes adjust to the sunlight, Castiel is able to take in the man standing before him.

He’s tall, dressed in a suit that fits him impeccably and carrying a satchel on one shoulder. His hair is a sandy brown and freshly cut, the stubble along his jaw the same colour, and green eyes sparkle at Castiel from above a nose dotted with freckles. He’s handsome enough that it gives Castiel pause for a moment—and now his question becomes, _why is a man this good-looking standing on my doorstep?_

Upon seeing Castiel, the man’s lips turn upwards, his mouth slanting into a grin and his eyes gaining a light that, for some odd reason, feels vaguely familiar to Castiel.

“Are you Castiel Novak?” the man asks, and immediately, Castiel’s blood goes cold.

‘Novak’ isn’t a name he’s used since he left behind the magical world and withdrew from his psychometric consultations. For someone to be turning up now, using his name and looking for all the world like they have an itch that can only be scratched with ancient treasure and adventure…

“I think you have the wrong house,” Castiel says, quickly and coldly. He sees the man beginning to protest, lifting his hand to stop Castiel, but Castiel is quicker. He shoves his front door closed and locks it before the man can even get a word out.

 _Shit_.

He’s never made a secret of where he lives, but he’s also made it clear that he’s out of the business. Clearly, this man never got that memo. Castiel can only hope that his words and his bluntness properly sink in, and that this man doesn’t keep trying to harangue him. It had taken a long time for people to get the message that he just didn’t do that kind of work any more—and to learn not to fuck with him if they couldn’t take no for an answer.

He leans back against his front door, aware of the fact that the man seems to still be standing on the other side, and blows out a long sigh. “When will people just leave me alone?” he whispers under his breath, then pushes off the wood and makes his way back upstairs.

By the time he makes it back to his breakfast, his tea has gone cold, and the yolks of his eggs have coagulated into sad, lukewarm blobs. _Damn it_ , he thinks to himself while forcing them down despite his appetite having been officially ruined.

_Why had that man come to see him? What did he want? Is he going to give up, now that Castiel has turned him down?_

They’re all questions that he’s going to have to wait to find out the answer to. As much as he could sit here all day and nervously obsess over the man on the doorstep, Castiel does actually have work to get to this morning. He tidies up his dishes and sets his newspaper aside on the ever-growing stack of outdated papers, then makes his way out of the kitchen and back through the house to his bedroom.

Or, at least, that was the plan—

Until he turns the corner and finds the man from the doorstep standing in his hallway, poring over some of the items stored away in Castiel’s glass cases.

For a second, he’s too shocked to move, or even to say anything. All that comes out is a surprised, strangled, “How in the hell did you get in here?”

The man doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t even act surprised—almost like he was _waiting_ to be caught. When he straightens up, it’s with a charming half-smile curling his lips and a relaxed swagger to his stance that seem to indicate that he feels right at home breaking into other people’s houses.

“You left a window open,” he explains with a shrug, letting his fingertips fall away from the glass case. _He got in through the window?_ The only one that Castiel knows is open is up on the second floor, how the hell had he…

Anyway, it doesn’t matter. “You’re trespassing,” he tells the man, clear and firm as he takes a step back. “If you don’t leave, I’ll have to call the police. I’m not interested in whatever you’re here for—whatever you want me to help you steal.”

The man’s eyebrows go up, and he chuckles, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Perceptive, huh? How’d you know I want to steal something?”

“That’s all that men like you ever want,” Castiel bites out coldly. “Trust me, I’ve been endangered by enough of them to know. I don’t do those jobs anymore, so whatever you want from me, you’re not going to get it. Now, once again, I’m going to suggest you leave, or this won’t end well for you.”

There’s no reply, not right away. Instead, the silence stretches out between them as the man holds Castiel’s gaze. Finally, he looks away—but only back towards the case he’d been admiring before. “This is amber, isn’t it?” he asks, gesturing at the handful of blue stones on display. “From Shambhala. Pretty freakin’ cool find. And it’s valuable, too—people would pay a shit ton of money for that. So the fact that you haven’t sold it, and you don’t do the shady work that pays well any more… that tells me you’ve got a conscience.”

The look he gives Castiel sends a tingle down his spine—as though this man is privy to the kinds of secrets that Castiel itches to know about. Like he _knows_ how Castiel ticks.

“And if you’ve got a conscience… you might want to hear me out when I tell you why I came.”

As much as Castiel wants to tell this man to leave, to go fuck himself…

He has to admit, his interest is piqued.

“You have sixty seconds to tell me,” he grumbles, raising a warning finger at the man, “and then if I still want you to leave, you leave. Otherwise you’d better believe that I’ll be calling the police on you.”

The man smirks—a smirk that irritates Castiel down to his very bones, because it clearly means _I know you won’t be calling the police_. But, God help him, Castiel wants to know why he’s come here.

“My name is Dean,” he begins. “Dean Winchester.”

Well, at least it’s nice to be able to put a name to the face, and it certainly suits him.

“I work for the Men of Letters,” Dean continues, and winks when Castiel’s eyes widen. “Yeah,” he says, with a hint of amusement. “Thought you mighta heard of them.”

Castiel has _heard_ of them alright. He’s heard the stories ever since he’d unwittingly started working for the same immoral people the Men of Letters are supposed to oppose, but he’d only ever considered them to be a myth. An urban legend. A story, to keep relic thieves on their toes and lackeys under the thumb of their bosses.

 _Obey us, or when the Men of Letters get their hands on you, they won’t be quite as kind to you as we are_.

But unlike thieves, the Men of Letters were said to revolve around the notion of _rescuing_ magical artifacts—of taking them out of the hands of bad people and storing them away so that they may never be misused, or even used at all.

“So you’re a Man of Letters,” Castiel asks, still more than a little suspicious. “Assuming they’re more than just a myth—why are you in New York? What are you after? And why do you need _me_ for it?”

Dean levels a finger at Castiel, his grin widening, and god, it already feels so easy to get swept up in that grin and all it promises. “That’s the question, Cas. And that’s what I wanted to explain to you, before you shut the front door in my face.” He raises his hands quickly, as if to say, _no hard feelings_. “The explanation is a bit of a long one, though. Got anywhere we can sit down and talk about it? I know you’re meant to be working down at the museum today, but I promise I’ll make all this worth your while.”

Immediately, Castiel’s suspicion ratchets up again, and he eyes Dean warily. “How did you know I work at the museum?”

“I do my research.” Dean’s answer is matter of fact and nonchalant, and he holds Castiel’s gaze when he continues to scrutinise him. “Look, man, I’m an open book,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. “Everything I’ve told you is true. I’m not like the relic hunters you used to work for, okay? I’m one of the good guys.”

Not only does Dean Winchester know about his current life… he also knows about his past. Instinctively, Castiel can’t help but put a few more walls up—Dean is clever, and that means that he has the capacity to be dangerous, despite how charming he seems. He can’t let his guard down.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t curious about what Dean has to say, and about the opportunity to do _good_ in the magical world for once. Maybe he can make up for all the things he’s helped steal in the past, and the ripple effects that have happened as a direct repercussion of his involvement.

“Okay,” Castiel says finally, inclining his head. “I’ll hear you out. That’s not an automatic yes, mind you, but… I’m curious. Follow me, we can talk further in the parlour.”

Dean’s excitement is almost palpable, from the way his eyes light up and he becomes so much more animated. To his credit, he manages to stay quiet as Castiel leads him through the house—although the way he half-reaches for so many of the different display cases they walk past betrays just how curious he is about all the relics in Castiel’s house. Honestly, it might be nice to finally have someone to talk with about them again.

_No, Castiel. You’re not making friends. You’re just hearing him out, maybe helping him in order to atone for your past and to help the Men of Letters. Then you’re going back into retirement. The museum pays well, even if none of them have any idea about the true history of so many of their items._

They make their way into the parlour, and Castiel takes a seat in his favourite armchair, letting it lend him some modicum of comfort as he gestures for Dean to take the chair opposite. “So,” he starts, leaning back in his chair and eyeing Dean. “What brought you to New York? I didn’t think the Men of Letters existed here.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “I thought you considered us a myth?” he counters, chuckling when Castiel levels him with an unimpressed look. “Fine, fine. We like to keep our information vague, but we actually have lots of different hubs—bunkers, if you will. There are some agents stationed here in New York, but none of my calibre. I was called in special.”

There’s only a _hint_ of cockiness and self-confidence in that statement, which surprises Castiel somewhat. At the same time, though, someone who was able to break into Castiel’s house through a second-story window is probably pretty good at what he does, so he’ll let Dean have that one.

“So you were called out here, to New York.” Castiel steeples his fingers in front of himself. “Why?”

That question seems to sober Dean a little. “We heard word of an amulet that was being shipped here from Europe.” His previously playful expression is gone; he’s all business now. “It’s been said that the amulet allows whoever holds it to control the tides—which, considering we’re currently in a city that’s only a few feet above sea level, could have pretty devastating consequences if whoever is after it gets their hands on it.”

 _Well_. Castiel raises his eyebrows. “That is… less than ideal.”

He takes a moment to imagine a twenty-foot wave sweeping over New York, decimating homes and businesses and causing hundreds, if not thousands, of lives to be lost, and shudders at the thought. “So where do I come into your plan?” he asks, eyeing Dean with curiosity and no small amount of concern. He really doesn’t want to be pulled back into the world he’s tried so hard to escape, but Dean’s story isn’t making it easy. “If you’re such a good hunter of artifacts, you shouldn’t need me, surely?”

Dean gives him a look that falls somewhere between amused and unimpressed, and it feels like a small victory to have used his boast against him. Castiel has seen his types before, after all, and people with his level of misplaced cockiness could always stand to be knocked down a peg or two.

“About that…” Dean begins, shifting in his seat. “I had a lead on when it would come into town, but someone beat me to it—by a matter of _minutes_ , though, before you go thinkin’ I’m terrible at my job. So they got the amulet, but… they left something behind. And _that’s_ what I was hoping you’d be able to help me with.”

And there it is. The thing that Castiel has always been sought out for, the thing that makes him valuable, an _asset_.

His psychometry.

“What’s your item?” he asks warily, hoping to God that it will be something easy to read so he can point Dean in the direction that he needs to go and be truly done with this forever.

Of course, it’s just his luck that this wouldn’t be quite that simple.

Dean clears his throat, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of gloves. For a second, Castiel is hopeful that _they’re_ the item—something constantly in contact with the target’s skin, touching the things in their world and doing part of their seeing for them? They’re the _perfect_ item.

But, of course, that would be too easy. When Dean pulls the gloves on, Castiel begins to get nervous, because if it’s something that needs gloves in order to avoid psychometric contamination… it’s not going to make Castiel’s life easy.

When Dean pulls a single scrap of fabric out of the pocket of his waistcoat, Castiel almost groans out loud.

“You’re wasting my time with _that_?” he asks incredulously, rubbing his palms over his face to try and combat his rising anxiety. “Surely there’s some other psychometric that your organisation is aware of who’ll entertain your insanity, Mr. Winchester. I don’t have time for this.”

Dean winces slightly, shifting the fabric into one palm and resting his hand in his lap. “I know it’s a stretch,” he acknowledges, “but that’s why I’ve come to you. You’re the best psychometric our business has seen for a long time. No one else would be able to get anything from this, but… well, I’m hoping you can.”

Castiel stares down at the cloth for a few long moments, then meets Dean’s gaze again, thinking.

“Please, Castiel,” Dean says quietly, after about a minute has passed. Much of his previous cockiness is gone, and it’s refreshing to see this genuine side of him. In that moment, Castiel feels himself crumble.

“Will I be paid for this?” he hedges, not fully committing just yet, but he can see from the way Dean’s expression lights back up that Dean _knows_ he’s leaning towards saying yes.

“Of course. The Men of Letters will compensate you for any work you do for us, and any help you give me.”

 _Will_. A definite, not a hypothetical.

 _Damn it, I said I wouldn’t do this again_.

But Dean is handsome and charming and unguardedly honest in the moments he needs to be. He works for the Men of Letters, and he’s set his sights on saving the city of New York, and…

And Castiel knows that the decision was made for him the moment he opened his front door.

“Okay,” he says quietly, running a hand through his hair and hoping he won’t live to regret this. “Okay, fine. I will help you. _But_ —” he adds, as Dean’s face splits into a grin— “It’s just this once. This doesn’t mean I’m on retainer for you, or the Men of Letters, or anything like that. I help you this once, I do a good deed to balance out the bad people I’ve helped in my past, and then you leave me alone. I worked very hard to get out of this life, and you and your employers have to respect that.”

Dean nods, managing to contain his excitement behind a solemn expression for just a few seconds. “We will,” he says, his voice serious. “You have my word. After this is over, if you want nothing more to do with me or my organisation, then that’s fine. I just need your help with this—I wouldn’t ask if I had any other option, trust me.”

Castiel levels him with a dry look. “I’m aware,” he mutters, then holds out his hand, palm up. “Can I see it?”

“The cloth?” Dean asks, his brow furrowing, and Castiel barely manages to suppress his sigh.

“Yes, the cloth.”

He watches as Dean carefully lifts it, as though it’s some precious, breakable item, and gently places it in Castiel’s palm. Once it’s perfectly situated, he sits back in his chair and pulls off his gloves, then looks at Castiel with wide, expectant eyes.

Castiel blinks at him, then raises his eyebrows. “You are aware that this isn’t an immediate process, right?”

Dean clears his throat awkwardly. “Yeah, uh, of course. Sorry, I’ve just… got a lot riding on this.”

“Apparently we all do,” Castiel mutters under his breath, then closes his eyes in order to try and block Dean out so that he can focus.

It doesn’t work overly well. He’s still aware of Dean’s presence and the unwavering gaze boring into him. In the quiet room, he can almost hear Dean’s _heartbeat_ , so every breath and nervous, anticipatory movement echoes loudly.

After a minute or two in which he fails to conjure up any kind of information at all, Castiel reaches the end of his patience. “Dean,” he says, opening his eyes, “if you would like to go and amuse yourself by perusing my private exhibits, make yourself a cup of tea, or even sleep in my damn bed, you are welcome to, but I cannot concentrate with you sitting here staring at me like the world is about to end this very moment if I don’t glean anything from this single scrap of fabric.”

Dean winces as he stands up from his chair. “Sorry, Cas. I’ll keep myself amused elsewhere for a while." He pauses in the doorway. “Can you come find me when you figure something out?”

 _That’s_ if _I figure something out_ , Castiel clarifies in his head, although he doesn’t share the thought with Dean. Considering how quickly his cocky exterior had melted into genuine worry, Castiel doesn’t think that he needs to be alarming Dean any more than he already is. Instead, he just says, “Of course,” and watches as Dean lingers in the doorway for a moment, two… and then disappears.

For what feels like the first time all morning, Castiel sighs, and lets his whole body relax.

He’s never been able to focus his powers when he’s wound up, and this is no different. Having someone breathing down his neck for results never yields anything—that’s the one thing he’d used to his advantage when he was in this business, a long time ago.

“Okay,” he mutters, running his thumb lightly over the fabric in his hands. “Tell me your secrets, little cloth.”

~

It takes Castiel a lot longer than he’d expected to find anything from the item Dean had brought him.

By the end of his attempt, he’s slumped exhaustedly in his chair and there’s sweat beading at his temples and along his hairline. _This is part of why I don’t do these jobs anymore_ , he thinks to himself, as he tries to muster up the strength to stand up and go find Dean.

 _At least I found something_.

The cloth seems new, not yet worn in, as though the owner hadn’t had much time to connect with it or leave it imprinted with any kind of lasting memory. Still, it’s better than nothing, and at least now he can tell Dean that he managed to discover something.

 _Oh no, now I have to tell Dean_.

Castiel leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, just for a few more moments. It’s been so long since he had to search this hard and for something so specific, and it’s taken a lot out of him. Eventually, though, he manages to lever himself up out of his chair, steadying himself on the arm for a moment as he sways. _I need a nap_ , he thinks to himself, making sure that he’s definitely not going to topple over before he carefully lets his fingertips fall away and straightens up.

Rarely has Castiel disliked having a large house, but this is one of those times. “Dean?” he calls as he makes his way down the hallway. He has no idea how much time has passed since he told Dean to go entertain himself elsewhere, so there’s no telling where he could be.

In the end, Castiel finds him down on the first floor, tucked away in the library with a book. From the stack sitting on the desk next to him, he’s clearly been picking some out for light reading—or not, if the thick tome open in front of him is anything to go by.

“Dean,” Castiel says, making himself known, and he must admit, it’s a little satisfying to see the man who had somehow broken into his house jump about a foot out of his chair.

“Cas!” he exclaims, his eyes going wide for just a second before he regains his composure. “Holy shit, I didn’t hear you come in. I’ve got to put a bell on you or something.”

A _bell?_ “This is my house, in case you forgot.” Castiel keeps his voice dry, his expression vaguely unimpressed. “I know how to be quiet in it, and I will not wear a bell in my own residence. _Anyway_ ,” he says pointedly, redirecting them back to the subject at hand. “I managed to find some information about your… scrap of cloth.”

That gets Dean’s interest, because he closes the book and sets it aside, then turns all his attention on Castiel. “And?” he asks, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. “What did you find out?”

Castiel hands the scrap back to Dean, who pockets it without looking. “The person this fabric belonged to spent most of their time at a… a speakeasy, before whatever happened to detach this scrap from the rest of—I think it must have been a coat. I don’t have a name for the speakeasy, but I can see… alcohol, and the colour red, and money changing hands. I get the feeling that it’s somewhere in Brooklyn, but apart from that…” He shakes his head tiredly. “I don’t have much more for you.”

But from the expression on Dean’s face, and the way his brows are creased in concentration, it’s clear he’s already trying to put the pieces together. He’s dedicated, like a bloodhound that just won’t let go of a scent, Castiel will give him that.

“Red… a red speakeasy,” Dean mutters to himself as he stands from the desk, then reaches out and claps Castiel on the shoulder, lips curling into a grin. “I think I can work with that, Cas. Thanks for your help, I’ll be in touch.”

_Wait…_

“You’ll be in touch?” Castiel asks, frowning, as Dean steps past him. “Mr. Winchester, what do you mean, you’ll be in touch?”

“I mean,” Dean calls over his shoulder, gesturing in the air with one hand as he walks away, “that this isn’t over yet. I might need your help with this further down the track, because I don’t think these sons of bitches will be easy to find. But, at the very least…”

He pauses just before he turns the corner and looks back at Castiel, lips curled up in a grin and a sparkle of _adventure_ in his eyes that kindles a fire in Castiel he’d thought to be long-dead.

“At the very least, I’ll have to pay you for today. And in person, because you’re way too handsome to never see again.”

And then he’s gone, disappeared around the corner, and Castiel is left standing dumbfounded in his own house. Just as he’d shown himself in, Dean shows himself out—although via the front door this time. Castiel hears it open and close down the hallway, his house now oddly silent and still without Dean’s presence.

 _What on earth?_ he thinks to himself as he stands there and stares at the place where Dean last stood, half-wondering if he’d just _hallucinated_ all of this. There’s no hallucinating the pure exhaustion he feels in his bones, though—or, when he turns back to his library, the book that Dean had left half-read, sitting open at the page he’d been on.

But, real or not real, that doesn’t matter right now. What _does_ matter is that Castiel gets some rest, because otherwise he might just pass out where he stands.

Today has been a bizarre day. Between having a strange man climb in through the second floor of his house, spending hours using his powers on the merest _scrap_ of fabric, and then having the man leave an aura of mystery and intrigue upon his departure…

It’s hard to believe that it’s not even four in the afternoon yet.

Castiel makes his way up to his bedroom, tiredly tugging off the work clothes that he’d never actually gotten to _wear_ to work. He’ll call tonight, if he’s done with his nap by that point, or tell them tomorrow that he’d been too unwell to come in. He’s trustworthy and straight-laced enough that they’ll believe him—if only they knew how he’d spent his younger years hunting treasures for the highest bidder and getting mixed up in all kinds of shady business.

As it turns out, those days might not be fully behind him just yet.

Now isn’t the time to think about that, though. Castiel crawls into bed in his underwear and pulls the covers up over himself. Now is definitely the time for sleep, and _after_ that, he can process today—from Dean’s arrival, to the information he’d given Castiel, to the details of the amulet he’s trying to track down.

But it proves all too intriguing, because as he lets himself drift off to sleep, exhaustion claiming him in its dark embrace…

All he can think about is Dean, and the colour _red_.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel’s thoughts continue to haunt him that evening, and the next day, and the next.

He’s certain that there’s something he missed while reading the fabric, something only just starting to unravel itself in the very back of his subconscious, but without the actual item, there’s not much he can do. So he goes back to work, makes an excuse for his absence (not that anyone really noticed he was missing in the first place), and returns to identifying and cataloguing pottery shards.

All the while, his thoughts bounce around in his head.

_Dean. Amulet. Red?_

He thinks himself in circles until he’s exhausted, falling into bed each night after many fruitless attempts to uncover whatever it is that’s hiding from him.

Three days after he’d first turned up on Castiel’s doorstep, Dean returns.

This time, he looks a little worse for wear. There are faint bags under his eyes, and when Castiel answers the door, his smile lacks its previous edge and charm, instead falling flat. Something’s wrong.

“Hey, Cas,” he says, and even his _words_ sound tired. “Mind if I come in?”

“If I say no, are you just going to break into my house again?” Castiel replies drily—and at least _that_ gets a proper smile out of Dean.

“Probably,” comes the honest response, as Castiel steps aside to let him in. He lets the door swing closed, turning to face Dean in the entryway. There’s a certain energy to him that Castiel can _just_ pick up on, nervous and restless.

“How can I help you, Dean?” There has to be some reason that Dean is back, looking as though he’s barely slept in the last few days, and Castiel has a more-than-slight suspicion that it has to do with the cloth.

Dean runs his fingers through his hair, then sighs, as though the weight of the world is on his shoulders. “So I followed up all the leads I thought could be related to the clue, but… honestly, I’ve come up short. And every day that I’m wasting is another day that the amulet could be used for destructive purposes, so here I am.” He gives Castiel a helpless look and shrugs his shoulders. “I need your help again.”

Castiel should say no. He’s done with this life, and he’d only said yes to Dean last time out of curiosity, and the itch to _help_ in order to make up for his past sins.

And yet… Despite himself, all his concerns and misgivings… He _likes_ Dean. And he wants to help.

He really hopes he’s not getting in over his head here.

“Okay,” he says on an exhale, then nods his head, cementing his decision. “I’ll help you find this amulet. Come on, we’ll talk in the library.”

Dean follows him through the house, always staying a step or two behind even though there’s no way that he hasn’t already memorised the layout of Castiel’s house. He’s clever and crafty, and Castiel just has to hope that his trust isn’t misplaced. He’s _almost_ certain that Dean is one of the good guys, but…

He doesn’t let himself finish that thought. If he’s helping Dean, he can’t afford to let himself doubt.

What will be will be.

They make themselves comfortable in the library, Castiel sitting at his desk and Dean sinking into the plush armchair that is a particular favourite of Castiel’s for reading. He interlaces his fingers and rests his hands atop the desk, trying to keep himself from fidgeting nervously. “What do you need from me, Dean? Why are you here?”

Dean shifts so that he’s sitting on the edge of the armchair, elbows resting on his knees and hands hanging loosely in between. He takes a deep breath, then sighs it out again. “I need you to come with me,” he says, not meeting Castiel’s gaze. “If any of the places I’ve been to are the right one, the one connected to the cloth, I need you there in case you feel something. If I can’t figure out where this amulet has gone, then the city—and other cities, all over the world—are in danger. And I can’t find the amulet without your help, Cas.”

This kind of pressure is what Castiel had wanted to leave behind when he retreated into his reclusive life. And arguably, the pressure he faced back when he worked as a psychometric-for-hire was much less intense than this. There was a pressure to deliver, sure, but it was only money on the line—not the lives of millions of people.

“I’m so glad you came to me with an easy request,” he mutters quietly, hoping that Dean won’t hear his sarcastic comment, but from the way the corners of his mouth turn down, it’s clear that he did.

“I’m sorry, Cas.” And he really does _look_ sorry, but Castiel has been burned by that same pleading expression enough times in the past. “If there was any other way, you know I would take it, but… I need a psychometric, and you’re the only one strong enough.”

Castiel bites back the urge to say _trust me, I know, and I wish I wasn’t_. It won’t help anyone right now. Realistically, he knows what he has to do, but he _likes_ his life of seclusion and the mundane, non-magical existence that he’s carved out for himself. He wants to _keep_ it. And stepping back into the world he’d bid farewell to so long ago…

It will change everything, he’s sure of it. But he doesn’t have a choice.

“Okay,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Okay, fine. I will work with you until we find this amulet, or we… we die trying, I guess. After that, the Men of Letters pays me _something_ and you leave me alone. Do we have a deal?”

Dean leans forward, holding his hand out into the space between them. For the first time today, there’s a spark of hope in his eyes—as though maybe his mission isn’t such an impossible one any more.

“Deal,” Dean agrees, and they shake on it.

~

They decide to meet that night, at a rendezvous point in the middle of Brooklyn. Time is of the essence right now, but the speakeasies don’t open until the evening, so it’s been a day of restless anxiety for Castiel. He can only imagine how Dean is feeling, with so much riding on finding this amulet.

He’s dressed long before he’s due to leave, and finds himself standing in front of the mirror, agonising over his appearance. Bars have never held much appeal for Castiel, but he’s selected one of his nicest suits in the hopes of blending in. Now he’s trying to figure out what to do with his hair.

_Will he fit in with the other men at the speakeasy? Will he look the part?_

_Will_ Dean _think he looks good?_

Castiel’s fingers still, and he stares at himself in the mirror. He shouldn’t be thinking about Dean like that—they hardly know each other, their relationship is purely a business one, and no matter how handsome and charming Dean may be, Castiel isn’t going to get involved. He’s known men like Dean in the past, and it can only lead to trouble.

Besides, he’s not interested in Dean. It was just an errant thought, that’s all.

Castiel hurriedly flattens down his hair as best he can, then checks himself over once more. He may as well leave now, so he’ll spend less time overthinking everything. The sooner they can get tonight over with, and get Dean some answers, the better.

The meeting point they’d chosen is an intersection in downtown Brooklyn—Castiel, of course, is the first one to arrive. Doing his best to look casual and nonchalant, he leans against the brickwork of a nearby building and tries not to treat every random stranger who passes by as a possible threat.

“Jesus, Cas, you okay? Why you standin’ so weird?”

Castiel almost jumps out of his skin and turns to face Dean, who must have the skills of a jungle cat if he’d managed to arrive without Castiel noticing at all. “Weird?” is the first thing he blurts out. “What do you mean, weird?”

Dean snorts, giving Castiel a quick look up and down that lingers maybe half a second longer than it should have—not that Castiel is an expert in these things. _Probably wishful thinking_ , he reprimands himself.

“All… y’know, stiff. You’ve gotta relax a little. Blend in. A night out won’t kill you—and even if it tries, I’ll keep you safe, okay?”

There’s an earnestness to his tone that hadn’t been there before, one that makes Castiel pause and think. Is he really in danger tonight? He hadn’t considered that—hadn’t considered _any_ of this, really—but now that he does, he realises that he doesn’t know very much about the details of Dean’s work, or the people that they’re looking for.

And neither does Dean.

Dean must see the sudden apprehension cross Castiel’s face, because he quickly corrects himself. “I mean, not that tonight is gonna be anything dangerous. We’re just looking around, it’ll be fine.” He shrugs, quick and casual, but there’s genuine sincerity in his voice. “I don’t like to put anyone in danger except myself. You have my word on that.”

Castiel may not have known Dean for very long, but he’s already known him long enough to be sure that Dean is the kind of man to keep his word.

“Okay,” he says, with a hesitant nod at first, and then a more definite one. “Okay. Well, lead the way, Dean. Where are we going first?”

Dean takes that as his cue to start walking, and Castiel falls into step beside him. “There are a few dodgy places in this area,” Dean explains as they walk, “so we’re gonna visit a few of them tonight, and see what we can turn up. We shouldn’t have any trouble, but just make sure you stay close to me, okay?” He looks over, his grin flashing in the light of the streetlamp, bright and bold. He looks _devastating_ , dressed in a suit that must have been made for him. “I promised I’d keep you safe, so that’s what I’m gonna do.”

Something in Castiel’s stomach flips, and he doesn’t trust himself to form any kind of coherent response to that, so he just nods.

They only walk for a few minutes, falling into an easy rhythm together, until Dean pulls up in front of an unassuming-looking restaurant. “This one here,” he murmurs to Castiel, dropping his voice low, then smiles at the stern man standing out the front.

“Evening,” he says, with that same grin that had originally convinced Castiel. “Do you guys serve a one-legged linguine here?”

Castiel frowns to himself, trying to figure out what on earth Dean means—but it must make sense to the man, because he just gives them a short, sharp nod, then slides his gaze past them, as though he’s no longer paying attention.

“What on earth?” Castiel mutters under his breath, but Dean just hooks his arm through Castiel’s and tugs him forward, holding the door open until they’re both through and then letting it fall closed behind them.

“What was all that about?” Castiel asks, dropping his voice low. The restaurant they’ve just walked into seems dingy and nearly deserted, and he hadn’t understood even a fraction of what had happened outside. “I thought we were meant to be going to a bar, not a—”

Dean hushes him, holding up a finger until he’s sure that Castiel isn’t going to say anything else. “C’mon, Cas, be a little discreet,” he teases with a smile, letting his hand drop once more. “The restaurant is just for show. For the cops. The real fun is downstairs. Honestly, it’s like you’ve never been to a speakeasy before.”

Castiel clears his throat and keeps quiet. Dean, ever perceptive, seems to pick up on the meaning behind his silence almost immediately, but thankfully, doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he just gives Castiel a quick wink, and tips his head towards the back of the restaurant.

Glad that he didn’t have to explain (or defend) himself, Castiel follows Dean towards the back, staying a step behind to let him lead but also endlessly curious about what’s waiting for them downstairs. He’s heard a lot about establishments like these, after all—that they’re illicit, immoral, dens of sin and iniquity—but Dean is buzzing with adrenaline and anticipation that makes Castiel impatient to find out what the big deal is.

There’s a door at the back of the restaurant, one that looks quiet and unassuming but must be anything but, considering the way Dean makes a beeline straight for it. “After you,” he says with a grin as he holds it open. Castiel has no idea what to expect on the other side, but he trusts Dean (foolishly, perhaps, but nonetheless), and so he steps over the threshold.

The door guides him down a short flight of stairs, and with each step, the sound of people grows louder—cheering, whooping, shouting, singing. Castiel finds that he’s holding his breath, and forces himself to release it as they reach the bottom of the stairs, and he steps out into the speakeasy.

There are people _everywhere_ , talking, dancing, drinking. Thick smoke curls through the low-ceilinged room. In the corner, there’s a small stage set up where a woman croons into a microphone, and against the back wall is a bar adorned with more alcohol than Castiel has ever seen in his entire life. Threaded through it all is an undercurrent of magic that Castiel can feel with his power, making the hairs on his arms stand up. There are liminal spaces where the human and magic worlds intertwine, where those from all walks of life meet to mingle and do business, and this must be one of them.

There are so many people here, so many things, so many _stories_.

It both excites and terrifies him.

Dean nudges him gently with his shoulder, grinning when Castiel looks over at him. “Pretty cool, huh? Never would’ve guessed all this was hidden down here. Well, some police know, but they turn a blind eye for the right price—or for the right people.”

“And that’s why we’re here,” Castiel guesses. “This place has the right people.” It certainly has the right _feeling_.

Somehow, Dean’s grin widens, and it feels surprisingly satisfying to know that Dean is happy with him. “Correct, Cas. I’m hoping there are some people here who can help us find what we’re looking for.”

Despite all his misgivings and the shady people he’s dealt with in the past… Castiel feels his heart rate pick up at Dean’s words, his adrenaline spiking. They’re _here_ , they’re going to find a _lead_ , and Castiel will finally get to give his powers free rein. If everything goes well, this could actually be _fun_.

“Where do we go first?” he asks, still trying to make a little more sense of what seems like a mess of chaos in front of him. Thankfully, though, Dean seems to know what he’s doing.

“Follow me,” he says with a grin, grabbing Castiel by the elbow and leading him further into the speakeasy. “We’re going to check out the bar first!” he says as they make their way through the crowd, leaning in close and pitching his voice so that Castiel can hear him over the noise. “There might be some people there who can help us.”

Castiel is content to follow along for now, safe under Dean’s guidance. It might be crazy, considering the short amount of time they’ve known each other, but he trusts Dean.

He just hopes that that trust isn’t misplaced.

Dean wedges them both into a spot at the bar, and Castiel finds himself shoulder to shoulder with both Dean and a burly man who glances at him sidelong before returning his focus to the woman he’s been talking to. There’s so much to take in that it takes Castiel a few moments to realise that everyone around them is drinking alcohol.

“Is this a good idea?” he asks Dean quietly, eyeing the amber liquid that the man beside him downs like it’s water. He can smell it, even from here.

But his question only elicits a laugh from Dean. “What, drinking? It’s fine, Cas! Besides, we’ve gotta look like we’re blending in!” he says, and his lips are a hair’s breadth from Castiel’s ear.

_Oh dear_.

“Have you had alcohol before?” Dean continues, seemingly oblivious to the way his proximity is addling Castiel’s brain right now.

Castiel just shakes his head. He’s had it offered to him a few times, but never accepted—it has to be outlawed for a reason, after all, and he’s never seen the appeal.

Even so, Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?” he asks, in a way that’s only _slightly_ condescending. “Damn, no wonder you don’t know much about speakeasies, then.” He eyes Castiel for a moment, clearly turning over his thoughts in his head, then smiles, easy and encouraging. “You wanna try some?”

Castiel should say no. He _should_.

But he’s learning that he’s not very good at saying no to Dean Winchester.

“Okay,” he says instead, with a hesitant nod. “Just a little bit, though. I don’t know how it’ll affect my, um… _skill_.”

Dean makes a face as if to say, _good point_. “’Just a little bit’ it is, then,” he declares, then turns away to ger the bartender’s attention.

Castiel takes this moment to watch Dean, to _really_ watch him. He’s so confident, so charming, so easygoing—truly a social chameleon, especially in this place that seems so chaotic and unfamiliar to Castiel. The more time they spend together, the easier it is to see how much Dean draws him in.

And now, the only question that remains is…

_How easy is it going to be to walk away, once this is all over?_

The bartender sets a glass down in front of Castiel, and his thoughts dissipate like smoke. He eyes the glass suspiciously for a moment, until Dean nudges him gently with his elbow. He’s already holding his, so Castiel sets aside his doubt and follows his lead.

“To our success,” Dean toasts with a grin, knocking his glass gently against Castiel’s.

“To our success,” Castiel echoes. Imbued with a hint of Dean’s bravery, he lifts the glass to his lips and swallows the contents in one go—it’s only half of what Dean has in his glass, but it still burns like fire sliding down his throat.

“Oh god,” he chokes out, trying to keep from spluttering. People voluntarily drink this stuff, and _enjoy_ it?

They must, because Dean’s glass is half gone, and he’s laughing as he pats Castiel on the back. “Well done, buddy!” he exclaims, and Castiel tries to focus on the way his hand rests there for a moment instead of the heat currently burning through his body. “How was it?”

“Fantastic,” Castiel croaks sarcastically, putting his empty glass back down on the bartop and pushing it as far away from himself as he can manage.

Dean’s laughter is like honey; Castiel could very easily be intoxicated by it.

Or maybe that’s the whiskey talking already.

“Fuck, you’re funny,” Dean mutters with a grin, then tosses back the rest of his drink. Castiel can’t remember the last time anyone called him funny, and it makes him a little proud. He can’t help but smile, watching as Dean places his empty glass down beside Castiel’s.

The drinks are done. Time for business.

“What’s our plan?” Castiel asks, leaning in close and dropping his voice low. It’s to be covert, he tells himself, not as an excuse to get closer to Dean.

“We’re going to have a look around. Pretend to do a little dancing, mingle a bit, see what we can find. You use your powers, I’ll use my wicked intellect and charisma to talk to some people—” He grins, waggling his eyebrows suggestively— “and between us, I’m sure we can find something.”

Castiel gives him a dry look, but he can’t deny that Dean _is_ intellectual and charismatic—and extremely handsome, to boot. That’s how Castiel had ended up here, after all.

Together, they make their way into the crowd, Castiel sticking close to Dean. There are people dancing all around them, getting lost in the music or in each other, and Castiel tries to pick up things from people as they brush past, but they’re moving too fast. Besides, it’s almost as though the room itself is alive with energy, writhing and twisting and sending his powers reeling with the strength of it.

Instead of trying to read the clothes that brush against his fingers as people push past, he follows Dean, who moves through the crowd as though he belongs there. There’s a moment when he turns as though to check that Castiel is still there, when the dim lighting catches across his face and illuminates his smile, that steals Castiel’s breath away.

They make it almost to the other side of the room, and then Dean stops and turns back to face Castiel. He moves with the music, almost without thinking, and Castiel desperately wants to ask him to dance, but there’s no way he can match Dean’s skill, so he stays silent.

“You gonna be okay if I go talk to people for a bit?” he asks, leaning in close so that Castiel can hear him. They’re standing close, and there are eyes on them, watching them. Castiel can’t decide if he wants to lean closer or step away. He stays where he is, breath tight in his chest.

“Of course,” he says, sounding much more confident than he feels. “I’ll see if I can find anything interesting.”

Dean nods, clapping Castiel gently on the shoulder. “Sounds good. And I’ll be keeping an eye out for you. Anything happens, I’ll be there, okay?”

Being alone in this room full of people, this mingling of the human and magical worlds, should put Castiel on edge, but he feels safer knowing that Dean is looking out for him. _Gods help me, I trust him_ , he thinks to himself, then says, “Okay.”

A moment passes, and then Dean’s hand slips from his shoulder. With one last smile, he disappears into the crowd, and Castiel is alone.

The resonance of magic feels stronger here, but when he really focuses on it with his powers, he can tell that it’s mostly second-hand: sigils, low-level amulets or trinkets, and people who spend enough time in the magical world to carry traces of it with them. Castiel knows because he is one—and now that he’s spending more time with Dean, he can feel it in him, too.

But beneath the electric current of second-hand magic in the room, it feels like there’s… something else. Something _stronger_.

Castiel concentrates on it, trying to follow it while attempting to blend in with the crowd as best he can. It leads him towards the closest wall, shrouded in shadows. No-one dances close to here—in fact, it’s as though they’re being actively repelled. There are people tucked away in every corner of the speakeasy, except for this one.

And Castiel understands why as he moves closer and pinpoints the outline of a door, barely distinguishable from the wall.

When he lays his hands on the wood, he can feel the sigils carved into it, see the memories of a worker with a knife, and the ritual they had enacted to activate them. He recognises them, of course— _shielding, distraction, silence_. But nothing to guard or lock. _Overconfident fools_ , he thinks to himself.

But above the memories of the sigils, layered over and over again, is the image of a single man passing through the door, dressed in a dark cloak. Immediately, Castiel recognises it from the cloth that Dean had brought him, and he feels his heart skip in his chest.

Carefully, and with a surreptitious glance around to make sure that the _distraction_ sigil is still doing its job—Castiel pushes open the door and slips inside.

Inside, the room is elegantly decorated, much more so than the speakeasy. It’s draped in red curtains— _red_ , Castiel’s brain reminds him, and he feels another piece of the puzzle click into place.

In addition to the curtains, there is also a well-cushioned booth, the two sides separated by a table, and a bar and desk off to the side. For a moment, Castiel just lets himself feel the energy in the room—before tonight, it had been a long time since he’d been around this much magical residue.

The booth must hold so many memories, but Castiel can’t let himself linger here. He has to try to find some kind of concrete clue _first_ , which means he needs to have a better look around.

He heads over to the desk, focusing his powers as he runs his fingers over the wood and trying to sense whether there’s anything in here that’s directly related to the day Dean had found that scrap of cloth.

It only takes him a few seconds to sense it. There’s something here.

The first two drawers he tries are both just full of stationery and random items, but when he tries to pull the third one open, it doesn’t budge. Castiel’s heart sinks. _Please let the key be here somewhere_ , he thinks desperately as he tries to follow the memory threads for a clue. Every second he spends in here increases the risk of being discovered.

Thankfully, his powers show him an image of a key being retrieved from beneath one of the alcohol bottles at the bar and used to open the drawer. It takes Castiel mere seconds to retrieve the key and unlock the drawer, his fingers shaking with adrenaline that he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

Inside the drawer is a ledger, thick and leather-bound, and Castiel doesn’t have to touch it to know that it’s what they’ve been looking for. It’s the next piece of the puzzle—and this is exactly what Castiel had been trying to avoid. The excitement, the _thrill_ of getting to use his powers like this once more.

_What will I do once we’ve solved this mystery?_

He shakes himself out of his thoughts and gets to work, wrapping the ledger in a dishcloth from the bar so that he doesn’t have to experience all the memories that come with it, then carefully shoving it inside his suit jacket. Castiel is careful to properly close the drawer and replace the key—the more time that passes before the ledger’s absence is discovered, the better.

So, now that he’s got it… all he has to do is get it out of here.

As tempting as it is to stay and see what other information he can glean, Castiel makes his way back over to the door and cracks it open, peering out. This little corner of the speakeasy is still empty and tucked away in the shadows, and it gives Castiel a moment to make sure no one is watching before he slips out of the room, quietly closes the door behind him, and rejoins the crowd.

Immediately, a hand closes around his bicep.

Castiel almost jumps out of his skin, expecting to see a guard standing there when he turns around, or even the cloaked man from the memories he’d seen.

But when he turns, his eyes meet Dean’s, green and full of fire.

“What the hell was that?” Dean hisses, and there’s anger in his voice, but it’s not hard to pick out the worry that undercuts it as well. “What were you thinking, disappearing like that? One second you’re there and then I look away for a _moment_ and you’re gone?”

Castiel should have found Dean to let him know what he was doing first, but there hadn’t been time—and they don’t have time for _this_ , either. Instead of explaining, Castiel just grabs Dean’s hand off his bicep and presses his palm against his chest instead, holding it there until Dean feels the shape of the ledger beneath Castiel’s jacket and his eyes widen in realisation.

“Come on,” Castiel tells Dean, letting his hand fall. “Once we’re out of here, I’ll tell you what I found.”

There’s no moment of hesitation from Dean, and it’s nice to know Dean trusts him as they make their way through the crowd, heading back towards the way they came in. Castiel keeps a tight grip on the book and tries his best not to look too guilty as they leave.

Finally, they step back onto the street. Castiel feels his whole body relax as he inhales a breath of fresh air and feels the magical energy from the speakeasy fade away.

Night has well and truly fallen, and the streets are full of cars and people on their way to enjoy the nightlife. Dean begins to walk, and they fall into step, sharing a steady silence until they’ve deemed themselves far enough away to be safe.

“There was a warded door,” Castiel explains, folding his arms over his chest to keep the ledger secure as they walk. “Behind it was a red room, and I found a book locked in one of the desk drawers. It’s going to tell us who took the amulet, I know it.”

Dean lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Damn, Cas, well done. Sorry I… kinda freaked out on you.”

He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, and Castiel gives him a smile to reassure him that it’s fine. “I understand, Dean. It’s okay. Did you find anything?”

Dean just shrugs, pushing his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Not much. A few people told me about some guy named Alastair, but it seems like he just does for-hire work. He’s the brawn, not the brains. I’ll let the Men of Letters know to check him out some more, but for now, he’s not our target.”

Dean blows out a sigh, and they walk in silence for another minute before he says;

“You did good, Cas. Thanks for coming to help me out.”

There’s genuine gratitude in his voice, and when Castiel looks over at him, they share a smile. It’s soft and intimate and for just a moment, it feels like everything else in the world falls away.

And then a yawn forces its way up from Castiel’s chest, the adrenaline of tonight catching up with him, and Dean laughs. The moment breaks like so much fine glass.

“Yeah, I’m tired too,” Dean agrees with a grin, then nudges Castiel gently with his elbow. “Let’s go back to my place, it’s not far. We can look at the ledger, and you can stay over, if you want. It’s too late in the evening for you to head home.”

Suddenly, the lost moment of that smile is the last thing occupying Castiel’s mind.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean is right: he doesn’t live far away.

As they walk, Castiel tries to get his head unstuck. He keeps bouncing back and forth between _I can’t believe we found what we were looking for_ and _I’m going to stay at Dean’s apartment, this is a terrible idea_. Because it is. He barely knows Dean, and already he can feel this developing infatuation, growing so quickly that it’s a little scary.

He should refuse, should give Dean the book, go home, and meet him again in the morning…

But he’s never been that strong. It was weakness that got him into trouble when he was younger, weakness that resulted in him secluding himself away, and now it’s weakness that will get him tangled up once more in everything that he’d sworn off.

_Fuck it_ , he thinks to himself as they come to a stop outside Dean’s apartment building. _I may as well start living my life again_.

“Here we are,” Dean declares, as they let themselves into the small foyer. Castiel doesn’t say anything, but Dean seems to be okay with that, leading Castiel up the stairs until they reach his floor and, finally, his apartment.

The inside of Dean’s apartment does not look how Castiel had expected it to—but then again, he’s not really sure how he’d expected it to look.

The place is neat and tidy, and at first glance there’s nothing out of the ordinary about it. It’s only when Castiel starts to actually _look_ at the titles of the books on Dean’s bookshelves and his decorations and the sigils very faintly etched into the window frames…

It becomes clear that Dean’s is no ordinary apartment.

“Home, sweet home,” Dean quips as he takes off his suit jacket and tosses it carelessly over the back of one of the kitchen table chairs. “Feel free to set up wherever, what’s mine is yours. You wanna take a look at that book now?”

They may as well. Castiel nods, pulling the ledger out from beneath his suit jacket and setting it on the table, still wrapped in its dishcloth. He takes a seat at the table, and when Dean leans over his chair, warm and close, Castiel has to force himself to focus on the book. Slowly, he reaches out, unwraps it, and opens it.

The first thing he sees are more memories of the dark-cloaked man, opening the book and writing in it over and over—Alastair, Dean had said. Not the one they’re looking for right now. Not the mastermind behind the amulet theft.

So he blocks out most of the memories, and starts turning the pages.

He was expecting artifact information. A journal. A book of spellwork, even.

But instead, it’s full of… nonsense.

Scrawled in neat lines across the first dozen pages are lines and lines of numbers. There are a few letters interspersed with them that make Castiel suspect he’s looking at some sort of code, but for the most part, it just looks as though it’s filled with indecipherable entries.

“What the fuck?” Dean mutters, and Castiel mentally echoes his statement.

“What do you think it all means?” he asks, fingertips brushing lightly over the page.

“I have no idea, man. Have you tried to get anything from it yet?”

“A little. Let me try again.” Castiel takes a deep breath, focuses his mind, and touches his hand to the pages. Immediately, he’s swept away, engulfed by the image of Alastair again. He tries to look past him, to glean any clues about the room or the other people in it, but… all their faces are shadowed. Try as he might, he can’t identify a single one of them, nor can he pick out anything else of interest from the memories he sifts through.

It’s a few minutes before he admits a temporary defeat, pulling his hand away from the book and slumping back in his chair. Dean has moved—now he’s sitting at the table opposite Castiel, chin propped in his hands, just… watching.

“Any luck?” he asks, and his face falls when Castiel shakes his head.

“The room was warded, which might be why I can’t see anything in it properly. I can’t see any faces except for Alastair.” He runs his fingers across the pages one more time, just to be sure, then sits back with a sigh. “Alastair clearly knows what he’s doing, so whoever’s hired him does as well.”

Across the table, Dean is still just sitting, quiet and still. It’s clear that he’s deep in thought, a frown creasing his brows. “Dean?” he asks quietly, after a few long moments have passed. Dean looks up, and his gaze focuses back on Castiel. “What do we do now?”

“There’s no point in you killing yourself trying to uncover those people’s faces. You’ve done enough tonight, you need to get some rest.” He leans across the table slightly, examining the writing again, then gives Castiel a grim, determined smile. “I guess we have to do things the old-fashioned way. I knew my coding practice would come in handy someday.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows slightly. “Coding practice?” he asks, and Dean just grins.

“Told you I’m a Man of Letters, Cas. I know things. I might not be a psychometric like you, but I have skills in other areas.”

_Like breaking into people’s houses_ , Castiel muses. An interesting skillset indeed—he looks forward to finding out the other tricks that Dean must have up his sleeve, but for now, he’s content to leave Dean alone with the book. “You really think you can decipher… whatever’s in there?”

“I can try. I’d prefer it over trying to find and confront Alastair—we don’t want to spook whoever he was working for.” Dean runs his fingers through his hair, then sighs and gives Castiel a tired half-smile. “I’m gonna make some coffee and see what I can figure out—do you want any? Or would you rather sleep?”

Suddenly, Castiel realises just how leaden his limbs feel. He can barely keep his eyes open. “Sleep,” he decides, rubbing his hands over his face and trying to stifle his yawn.

Across the table, Dean just chuckles, soft and fond. “Good choice. You can have my bed, I’m happy to sleep on the couch. Bathroom is through that door—” He gestures to one of the doors on the opposite wall— “and there should be a spare towel and maybe a toothbrush in there. Let me know if you can’t find them, and I’ll help you out, okay?”

Dean is a generous and thoughtful host, and it’s only compounding Castiel’s appreciation of him. At this point, he’s not sure if it’s even _possible_ to curtail the feelings that he’s rapidly developing towards Dean.

For a moment, he considers making an argument to sleep on the couch, until he realises just how much he’s used his powers tonight, and how leaden his body feels. Besides, he doubts it’s an argument that he’d win.

“Thank you,” Castiel tells Dean sincerely. “I’ll let you know if I need anything, otherwise I’ll come to say good night before I sleep.”

Dean just smiles up at him, warm and kind, then returns his focus to the book, leaving Castiel to make his way over to the bathroom door.

The bathroom is as small and tidy as the rest of Dean’s apartment, and god does it feel good to just be alone for a few minutes. The speakeasy, and being around Dean… it’s been a little overwhelming, so it’s nice to relax.

Castiel finds a spare towel in the cupboard under the sink, and a toothbrush, still in its packaging. It makes him idly wonder how often Dean has visitors staying in his apartment, but that’s not something he particularly wants to dwell on, so instead he focuses on stripping off his clothes. The suit jacket is laid carefully over the closed toilet lid, and the rest of his clothes quickly follow.

As he reaches out to run the tap for the shower, Castiel is _very_ careful to keep his psychometric powers shut off. It feels like an invasion of privacy, knowing that the only images that could be associated with touching _anything_ in Dean’s shower are ones that Dean probably wouldn’t be comfortable with him seeing.

Keeping his powers blocked only worsens his tiredness and the headache niggling at the back of his brain, but he endures it and steps under the spray of the water.

The heat helps relax him somewhat, and Castiel lets himself loosen up, the tension from this evening’s adventures fading out of his muscles. _What a night_ , he thinks to himself as he closes his eyes, tipping his head under the water.

He doesn’t spend too long in the shower, conscious of Dean’s water bill, but it’s long enough for him to feel warm and boneless when he steps out. The towel is wonderfully soft, and by the time he’s pulling his underwear and his shirt back on, his eyelids are beginning to droop. Deeming himself suitably dressed, he hangs up his damp towel beside what he assumes must be Dean’s, gathers up the rest of his clothes, and makes his way back out into the living room.

For a few seconds, Dean doesn’t look up, and it gives Castiel a chance to just _look_ at him. He’s still sitting at the kitchen table, except now he’s got a pen in his hand and is doodling notes into a notebook, constantly glancing over to the ledger and back again. He’s deep in focus, and so Castiel just stands there, watching, until Dean realises he’s there and looks up.

Immediately, the frown of concentration on his face fades, and he smiles. “Feel better?” he asks, and Castiel nods. “Do you need anything else? Are you gonna be okay sleeping in that?”

He’s going to have to be—the alternative would be sleeping in Dean’s clothes, and that is something that he definitely would not be able to handle. “I’ll be fine to sleep in these,” he says with a tired smile. Then, both to change the subject and because he’s starting to get the feeling that as cool and laidback as Dean pretends to be, he’s actually extremely dedicated to his work, he adds, “And don’t stay up too late working on that. It will still be there in the morning.”

Dean blinks at him for a moment before his smile widens into a grin, and he chuckles. “You’re the boss, Cas. I’ll try not to stay up too late. We’ll see how I go. You good to sleep now?”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel replies, the corners of his lips quirking up. “I am.”

“Night, then,” Dean says, but his gaze lingers, as though he doesn’t want to be the one to look away.

Castiel holds his eyes for a few long moments, then quietly says, “Good night,” and turns away to open the door to Dean’s bedroom.

This is where even more of Dean’s personality shines through—his collection of records, his books, the variety of relics and knickknacks on his shelves. It almost feels as though Castiel is intruding upon Dean’s space, but he has to remind himself, _this was Dean’s idea_. He sets the rest of his clothes down on the chair by the door, then makes his way over to the bed.

Exhaustion is pulling him down, but he still forces himself to take a moment to focus, shutting away his powers as best he can. Once he’s confident that he’s managed it, he reaches out and tentatively touches the bedsheets with his fingertips.

_Nothing_.

Castiel is grateful, not for the first time, that he’d taught himself how to shut off his powers when he’d left the magical world. It’s a skill that, clearly, continues to come in handy.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, then swings his legs up and lies down. Even with his powers as switched off as they can be, it’s hard not to think about Dean lying in this exact spot, night after night. _Privacy, Castiel_ , he reminds himself, as he gets his head comfortable against the pillow and pulls the covers up over himself. He looks at the walls, at the shape of the dim, yellow light where it filters in off the street, then closes his eyes and lets his exhaustion overtake him.

~

When Castiel wakes, he doesn’t remember where he is straight away.

Instead, he shifts beneath the sheets, rubbing his cheek against the pillow and exhaling a sigh that he feels deep in his chest. He feels warm and _content_ in a way that he hasn’t for a long time.

When he slits his eyes open just a fraction, the room is still dark, so he figures he still has at least an hour before he needs to drag himself out of bed. The sheets have fallen down off his shoulders, so Castiel reaches for them, curling his fingers into the fabric.

_Dean lies sprawled across the bed, naked and flushed, head tipped back towards the ceiling. There are freckles all over his body, and he captures his bottom lip between his teeth to stifle a groan. One hand is grasping the sheets, tangled where they’ve been carelessly kicked off his body, and the other is wrapped around his cock—hard, glistening with pre-come, the head disappearing and reappearing as he strokes himself._

_He’s so close to completion, and he releases his bottom lip to gasp his pleasure into the air as he comes. There’s a name on his lips, tangled up somewhere in that moan, but it’s lost as his breath catches and he sighs out his release_.

Castiel bolts upright, scrambling out of bed in a second.

His chest is heaving, his hands are shaking, and he feels like—he _knows_ —that he just witnessed something private.

For a few moments, he just stares at the bed, his heart racing in his chest. He stands there until he can’t stay still any longer, those images playing on a loop in his head, and then he pulls on his trousers and makes his way over to the door.

He was right—it’s still early in the morning, and the sky outside is dark. The apartment, however, is lit by the yellow glow of a lamp that Dean had clearly forgotten to switch off before falling asleep. He’s sprawled on the couch, barely undressed and with a forearm slung carelessly over his eyes. Around him are pages and pages of notes, filled with scrawls and scribble and code, with the ledger lying open on the coffee table beside the couch.

Castiel forces his feet to move, until he’s sinking down into the armchair opposite the couch. He’s still tired, _so_ tired, but there’s no way he can return to Dean’s bed now. Not having seen what he’s seen, and not now that he knows there’s the chance of accidentally encroaching on another of Dean’s private moments.

Instead, he leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, wrapping his arms protectively around his body. The glow of the lamp is just bright enough to be seen through his eyelids, and it’s a glow that sees him into an exhausted sleep once again.

~

The next time he wakes, the room is bright. The sun has risen.

The light is insistent even with his eyes closed, but Castiel resists, just for a few moments. In this in-between state, he can forget—forget that he’s been pulled back into the world he swore off, forget that he’s currently embroiled in a mission to recover a priceless artifact…

And forget that he’s almost certainly developing feelings for the very person responsible for turning his life upside down.

In that moment, he remembers how he’d ended up in the armchair last night, and his eyes fly open.

_Oh no_.

Suddenly, he’s wide awake, sitting bolt upright in the chair. The couch opposite him is empty—well, empty of people at least, but still covered in pieces of notepaper and Dean’s scrawled writing.

Castiel’s gaze continues upwards, over the back of the couch, to where Dean stands in the kitchen. His back is turned, so Castiel gets a moment to gather his thoughts. Dean’s eyebrows rise when he notices Castiel watching him, and the corners of his eyes soften into a smile. “Mornin’, Cas! What, didn’t like my bed?”

It’s teasing, but there’s also a note of confusion and concern beneath it, and Castiel’s chest clenches with the memory of what his powers had shown him last night.

“There wasn’t anything wrong with your bed,” he says, and leaves it there, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Instead, he diverts. “How did your code-cracking go?”

Dean shrugs one shoulder as he pours himself a mug of coffee. “Made a little bit of progress, but not much. Shit’s hard—whoever has the amulet is no rookie, that’s for sure. I’m gonna keep working on it today, so if you want to stick around, that’s fine, but I get it if you don’t. Coffee?”

Castiel nods, watching as Dean turns away to retrieve another mug. “I should probably go to work today,” he points out. “The museum lets me have flexible hours, but I do feel like there’s a limit to _how_ flexible I can make them before they let me go.”

Dean snorts as he makes his way over with the two mugs of coffee. He hands one to Castiel, then steps back and looks at him thoughtfully. “You know you don’t have to keep working for them, right? You could do what I do. Be a Man of Letters.”

He could, he knows that, and it’s a kind offer, but…

“Thank you, Dean, but I…” Castiel sighs and sips at his coffee. “I just don’t think I’m quite ready to come back to this life. People have taken advantage of me for my powers in the past, and as much as I trust you… I just can’t. Not yet.”

Some part of his reply must resonate with Dean, because he sits down on the couch opposite, the corners of his mouth downturned. “Cas…” He runs a hand over his face. His eyes look so tired. So sad. “I’m really sorry if it seemed like I was taking advantage of you. I know I was, when I asked you to help me, when I broke into your house, but… fuck, I’m sorry. I really like you as a person, not just for your powers. I hope you know that.”

Castiel’s heart swells in his chest, emotions rising thickly in his throat. How long has it been since someone said those words to him? How much has shutting himself away from the world out of fear impacted his life?

“Thank you,” he whispers, managing a weak, wobbly smile. “I really appreciate that, Dean.”

And now they have to move on, otherwise he’s going to shatter apart in front of this man who he is almost certainly beginning to fall in love with.

“Thank you for the coffee,” Castiel says, forcing his smile to strengthen as he takes another sip. “I’ll finish it and then be out of your hair. If you need help tonight, though, I’m happy to come over again? But not if you’d rather be alone,” he hastens to add, feeling his cheeks burn. Goodness, it’s been so long since he’s been around someone he’s interested in.

But rather than pulling back, Dean just grins, bright and welcoming. “Of course, that’d be great! Someone’s gotta make sure I actually take breaks to eat and all that instead of just getting buried in decoding work. And if you wanna stay over again, you can have my bed—or armchair, or whatever you prefer.”

_Dean lies sprawled across the bed—grasping the sheets—so close to completion—his breath catches—_

The visions flit across Castiel’s mind again, rising from his own memory this time instead of the touch of the sheets, and now his cheeks are burning for an entirely different reason.

“You’re very generous,” he says as he stands, setting aside his half-drunk mug of coffee. His heart is beating too fast in his chest. “If you’ll excuse me, I really should be going. But I’ll see you tonight,” he clarifies, as Dean’s expression begins to crumple. “I’ll come as soon as I’ve finished work.”

Dean’s expression clears again, but there’s still a hint of confusion layered beneath—confusion that Castiel cannot and _will_ not explain. These feelings are for him to bear, and him alone.

“Alright,” Dean says quietly, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a small smile. “I’ll see you tonight, then, Cas.”

That smile plays on Castiel’s mind as he quickly dresses, as he closes the door of Dean’s apartment after himself, as he walks back to his own house. It stays with him while he’s at work, layered beneath all the things he can see as he slowly processes new artifacts, and it is still with him when he leaves at the end of the day.

Castiel’s feet carry him back to Dean’s apartment without conscious thought, and not even the weariness of a long day at the museum can dampen his excitement at the prospect of seeing Dean again. Once more, as he knocks on Dean’s front door, his heart feels as though it could leap out of his throat at any moment.

When Dean opens the door, he looks _tired_. His hair is sticking up as though he’s been running his fingers through it, the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows, and there are bags under his eyes that denote the mostly-sleepless night he must have had last night.

But, exhaustion or not, Castiel’s heart double-beats in his chest at the way Dean’s eyes light up when he sees Castiel.

“Cas!” Dean exclaims with a grin, stepping aside to let Castiel in. “How was work?”

Castiel steps over the threshold, setting his bag down beside the door as Dean closes it behind them. He’s come prepared tonight—a change of clothes, his own toothbrush, and a couple of books that he feels might interest Dean.

“It was okay,” he says, as he looks over the mess that seems to have enveloped even more of Dean’s apartment since this morning. “Interesting, but not quite as interesting as code-cracking and tracking down magical amulets, I must admit.” He can’t help but grin, feeling that spark of excitement in his chest that has been absent for so many years.

Dean laughs, and the sound of it is like a balm to Castiel’s soul. “I totally get that. I’m really glad you’re here, Cas. You ready to get stuck into some research and codes?”

The truth is that Castiel is ready to do whatever Dean could possibly ask of him. He nods, watching as Dean rubs his hands together in excitement.

“Alright, then. Let’s do it.”


	5. Chapter 5

Being around Dean is scarily easy.

They fall into a rhythm quickly, cohabiting like two planets orbiting the same star, and Castiel can’t decide what he likes better: delving into all this theory and codework, or watching how excited and intense Dean gets throughout the process. Dean moves his paperwork to the kitchen table, spending his time pacing back and forth with the end of his pen between his teeth, or hunched over the table while he scribbles notes.

Castiel, on the other hand, doesn’t have as much experience with coding, so he keeps trying to glean information from the ledger’s memories. It still doesn’t yield anything new, so he pokes through some of Dean’s coding books while he recharges. It’s incredibly complicated stuff, and Castiel eventually comes to the conclusion that if Dean can actually figure out the code, he’s going to be very impressed.

The night passes in a similar way—Dean at the table, Castiel on the couch, moving between ledger and books as they discuss, get up to stretch, or grab something to eat. The hours wear on into the early morning, and eventually Castiel’s exhaustion gets the better of him. He was only meant to close his eyes for a second, but the next thing he knows, there are hands on his shoulders, shaking him awake.

“Cas! Cas, I’ve got it! I fuckin’ cracked the code, I know what’s written in the ledger!”

Castiel blinks up at Dean, his brain still half-fogged with sleep. He’d been having such a nice dream…

And then the reality of Dean’s words hit him, and his eyes widen. Holy shit, he had not been expecting Dean to figure it out so quickly. _He really must be good at this_ , he thinks in surprise—not that he’d ever properly doubted him, but still. Cracking a whole code in just over twenty-four hours is impressive.

“You did?” he asks incredulously. “Well? What did it say?”

Dean’s hands leave Castiel’s shoulders, and then the ledger is being pushed in front of his face. Castiel forces himself up into a sitting position, squinting at the words. They still don’t make any sense to him, but they must to Dean, judging by the way he’s practically vibrating with excitement from where he’s kneeling next to the couch.

“It says,” Dean begins, his fingertip following the words as he reads so that Castiel can follow along, “ _A.S, Amulet. S.S. Horus,_ and then the date that the ship docked _,_ then _warehouse 4, Fr. 26_.” Dean sits back on his heels, turning to look up at Castiel, who forces himself to lean back an inch or two once he realises how close they are.

“Friday the 26th,” Dean declares, and thankfully, he’s too caught up in his own success to notice Castiel acting strangely—at least, he hopes that’s the case. “That was a few days ago, but it must have been when Alastair met up with his client. Considering the city hasn’t flooded yet, we still have time to find where the amulet is being kept—which I think must be at a ‘warehouse 4’. There’s a few of those that I’m aware of, but the mostly likely one is the one right by the bay. For a tide-manipulating amulet, it’s probably good to be by the water, right?”

“Right,” Castiel echoes, trying to absorb all this new information. He looks at the ledger again, then back at Dean’s face, his wide grin born of excitement and just a touch of sleep-deprived delirium. The importance of this breakthrough is starting to dawn on him now. “Dean, that’s amazing. Now we have a concrete lead to follow.”

“Exactly!” Dean snaps the ledger shut and tosses it onto the coffee table. There’s an energy about him that’s infectious, unleashable, something to be marvelled at and swept along by.

“Fuck, Cas, I’m so happy right now, I could kiss you.”

And just like that, the energy between them changes completely.

It feels as though all the air has been sucked out of the room. As though there’s a tension in Castiel’s chest he hasn’t felt before, one that he can see mirrored in Dean’s green eyes, gone wide. For a moment, time seems to stop, the two of them caught in a single, crystalized point.

Castiel doesn’t know who moves first, but one of them must, because between one second and the next, there are fingers curling in the front of his shirt, Dean’s body beneath his hands, Dean’s _lips_ on his.

He’s kissing Dean. Dean is kissing him back.

After a few moments, they break apart to catch their breath, neither of them having properly anticipated the kiss. Dean’s eyes are dark, and his tongue slides out to wet his bottom lip, teeth catching over it just barely.

Castiel isn’t sure if this is the worst or best idea he’s ever had, but he can’t stop himself from leaning in and kissing Dean again.

Time seems to slow as Castiel gets lost in Dean. They end up sprawled out over the couch, Castiel on his back and Dean half-draped over him, propped up with an elbow dug into the cushions and his knee braced between Castiel’s thighs. Their hands are roaming, sliding underneath untucked shirts and combing through hair, and Dean is mouthing along Castiel’s neck in a way that makes his toes curl.

As wonderful as it is to be making out like teenagers on Dean’s couch, however, there’s a spring digging uncomfortably into Castiel’s back, and he can only endure it for so long before he finally decides to risk interrupting this moment. “Bed?” he asks breathlessly on an exhale between kisses, because that’s all his brain can manage right now.

“Fuck yes,” Dean mutters in reply—although he makes sure to press a few extra kisses along Castiel’s jaw before letting him up off the couch.

They find it almost impossible to keep their hands off each other as they stumble across the apartment and through the doorway of Dean’s bedroom. Castiel can barely focus on anything that’s not Dean, but he _is_ able to regain enough thought to spin them as they stagger towards the bed. He presses Dean onto the mattress and watches as he sprawls across the sheets, taking a moment to just _admire_ him.

He looks beautiful there, in the semi-darkness of the night, propped up on his elbows and looking up at Castiel as though he’s the most important person in the world.

_I really hope I’m not dreaming this_ , Castiel thinks to himself, and then he follows Dean down onto the bed, slotting himself over Dean and holding himself up on his elbows as he presses another kiss to Dean’s lips.

Dean’s arms wind around Castiel’s neck, fingers tangling into his hair. Castiel settles between Dean’s legs, losing himself in Dean’s kisses, his touch, his closeness. It’s incredible, even more intoxicating than alcohol or cigarettes, but it’s not long before he starts to feel impatience and _need_ coiling in his chest. He reaches down, sliding his hand underneath the hem of Dean’s shirt and splaying his fingers across smooth, warm skin.

Dean’s breath hitches, and he kisses Castiel with more intensity, fingers tugging at Castiel’s hair hard enough to make him groan before sliding away to find other targets. They push the suspenders off Castiel’s shoulders, then start fumbling at the buttons of Castiel’s shirt, and it feels as though Castiel’s blood rushes south very quickly as Dean gets his shirt all the way open. There’s a fervency to Dean’s actions and the desperation of his hands that makes Castiel feel _alight_ in a way he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

He shifts, pulling back so he can sit up and pull his shirt the rest of the way off—then takes a second to just admire Dean, his bowed legs splayed out and already looking absolutely _debauched_.

“You’re beautiful,” Castiel murmurs, so quietly that he’s almost not sure if he imagined it.

“What was that, Cas?”

He didn’t imagine it.

“Nothing,” he tells Dean, then leans back down for a kiss. This time, though, he has more of a plan—his fingers slowly work down the front of Dean’s shirt, sliding each button open one by one and following the exposed skin with his lips. He traces the shape of Dean’s collarbone, kisses along a few of the scars he finds, and delights in the way that Dean’s back arches when he laves his tongue over a nipple.

“You’re teasing me,” Dean accuses breathlessly as Castiel reaches his waistband, raising himself up on his elbows to watch as Castiel works open the front of his pants.

“Correct,” Castiel tells him with a grin, then curls his fingers into the waistband of Dean’s pants and tugs them down.

Getting the rest of their clothes off is harried and fumbling, both of them too eager to get past the necessary hurdle. As soon as the last garment hits the floor, they’re back on each other, Dean’s mouth hot against his bare skin as he rolls them over and presses Castiel back into the mattress.

The night air of the room is cool against Castiel’s cock, and he can feel it twitch with anticipation as Dean mouths down Castiel’s chest, over the line of his hip, then finally, _blissfully_ , closes his lips around the head of Castiel’s cock.

It’s been so long, and almost immediately, Castiel has to rein himself in—there’s no way he’s going to come too early, not with how much he’s longed for this. Instead, he slides his fingers into Dean’s hair and feels the bob of his head, the lazy slide of that wicked, clever tongue. Dean is intoxicating and beautiful and this is already everything that Castiel had hoped it would be and more.

He loses track of time. Everything is the heat of Dean’s lips, over his cock, his skin, and he groans against Dean’s mouth as Dean moves up for a kiss, filthy and open-mouthed. Castiel tries to pay back his gratitude, his pleasure, guiding Dean up until he’s straddling Castiel’s waist and Castiel can curl his fingers around Dean’s cock.

Now it’s Dean’s turn to gasp, biting at Castiel’s bottom lip and moaning his pleasure into the night air as Castiel strokes his cock. Castiel’s other hand slides possessively over the curve of Dean’s ass, chuckling into the kiss as Dean rocks his hips forward and fucks into Castiel’s grip.

He’s happy— _more_ than happy—with this. With Dean’s body warm against his, bare skin on skin, Dean’s stuttering breath curling against his throat. They keep kissing, keep moving against each other, and when Dean wraps his hand back around Castiel’s cock, he feels himself teetering on the edge.

They’re not even kissing, by the end, just gasping with open mouths and their foreheads pressed together. Dean is still rocking above him even as he strokes Castiel’s cock—tiny, desperate little movements. Castiel can feel his orgasm approaching, and as it washes over him, he reaches up and slides his fingers into Dean’s hair, kissing him with a knocking of teeth so that he doesn’t accidentally say anything he’ll regret as he spills over Dean’s hand.

Dean follows not long after, his body tensing up and a beautiful, rough moan falling from his lips as he comes.

In the moments after, there is quiet. Stillness. No sound except for the ragged _inhale, exhale_ of their breathing.

Dean is the first to move. He rolls off Castiel and flops onto the bed beside him, reaching for his shirt where it was discarded on the bed and using it to wipe off his hand, then his body. “Well,” he says on an exhale, handing the shirt over to Castiel for him to do the same. “That was… I can’t say I’ve ever celebrated cracking a code quite like that.”

Castiel chuckles, breathless but a little bit hollow. “I was not expecting that,” he says as he discards the shirt and stares up at the ceiling, the words only partly intended for Dean.

For a few moments, there’s silence. When Castiel finally turns his head, Dean is watching him, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Was it okay?” he asks quietly, after the silence has drawn out longer. “I don’t—I should’ve checked you were alright with it, but you seemed—”

“Dean, it was fine.” Castiel cuts him off gently but firmly—that hadn’t been what he’d intended with his words at all. “More than fine, it was fantastic,” he adds when he sees Dean open his mouth to protest. “I just… Didn’t expect…”

_I didn’t expect you to be interested in me in that way._

_I didn’t expect to be adding extra layers of complexity to our relationship._

_I didn’t expect to fall in love with you._

Because that’s what this is. Dean is smooth and charming and so incredibly capable, but beneath all that is a layer of humour, and commitment, and determination, and all the things that make him vulnerable. That make him _Dean_.

_Fuck_ , Castiel thinks to himself, in that quiet moment of the night and in the pause between words.

“I didn’t expect to end up here with you,” he finishes lamely.

Dean watches him with those green eyes that have seen so much. There’s that tension still between them, but it’s shifted now. It feels raw. Open. Honest.

His throat bobs, as though he’s weighing his words.

When they come, they are so quiet that they barely take shape in the air.

“Cas, I really like you. I’ve enjoyed working with you, and if you want to go back to just being friends or colleagues tomorrow, then I respect that. But for what it’s worth…”

Dean’s jaw works. His gaze slides away, as though he can’t quite get the words out. Castiel’s heart thuds in his chest, and he holds his breath.

“I wouldn’t hate it if this—whatever’s between us right now—turned into something… more.”

Castiel exhales, long and slow even though it feels as though his heart is about to break through his ribs. Those words, _Dean_ …

He’s incredible, but…

He’s also intrinsically linked to the world that Castiel had always told himself he would leave behind forever.

“I need to think about it,” he says quietly, because he can already see Dean’s face falling as the silence drags out between them, as Dean closes off again, clearly regretting his moment of vulnerability. “I’m not saying no, but… It’s complicated, Dean. I need you to understand that. And I need… I need time.”

Dean watches him, his gaze steady in the semi-darkness. For a long time, he doesn’t move, doesn’t respond. Finally, he just nods, a single, short movement.

“Okay,” he says. “We can talk about it tomorrow—or whenever you want to talk about it. But for now…” He laughs, quiet and with less humour than Castiel would like. “I dunno about you, but I’m fucking exhausted.”

Only now does Castiel notice how incredibly heavy he feels, as though his body is weighed down, pulled into the mattress. He smiles, soft and genuine enough that it relaxes some of the lines on Dean’s forehead. “Me too,” he agrees gently. “We should sleep. Whatever tomorrow is going to bring, we should face it fully rested.”

The corners of Dean’s lips curl up into a smile to match Castiel’s. They don’t speak as they manoeuvre themselves beneath the covers, and while Dean’s breath hitches when Castiel tentatively presses up behind him, he quickly leans back into the touch, and doesn’t say anything. Castiel takes that as acceptance, and carefully places his arm around Dean’s waist, pressing his forehead gently against the back of Dean’s neck.

Even if he doesn’t let himself have Dean, even if he makes the choice to separate himself completely from this world once more…

He will allow himself tonight, and he knows, deep down, that he will carry this moment with him in his heart for a very long time.

~

When Castiel wakes, he is expecting the bed to be empty. They have a lot to do today, after all, and from the brightness of the sunlight filtering into the room, they don’t have much time left to waste. If Dean was already up and about, Castiel wouldn’t blame him—he’d be a little disappointed, of course, but he’d understand.

But the bed isn’t empty.

Castiel slits his eyes open to find Dean lying on his side, one hand pillowed beneath his hand and green eyes idly watching him. When he sees that Castiel is awake, his lips twitch up into a small smile.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs, sleep-rough and quiet.

Castiel blinks slowly, then gives Dean an answering smile. “Good morning.” This isn’t what he’d expected, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t happy to see Dean’s face first thing upon waking up. “I thought you’d be up and about by now.”

Dean shrugs one shoulder. “Nah, not yet. Wasn’t ready to get up—besides, it’s been a while since I got to sleep in. I figured we earned it.”

It’s not like Castiel really did a huge amount—if anyone deserves some extra sleep after working so hard to crack the code, it’s Dean—but he’s not going to complain. He definitely won’t say no to getting to draw this moment out just a little bit longer, so he hums quietly in agreement, and shifts his head against the pillow.

“Were you watching me sleep?” he asks after a few moments, lips ticking upwards as he watches Dean’s cheeks flush.

“Not in a weird way.” Dean’s voice has a slightly defensive edge to it. “You just always seem… I dunno, a bit tight and anxious when you’re awake. Last night, and when you’re asleep… you seemed so relaxed. I couldn’t help it.”

Well. That was a much sweeter answer than Castiel had been expecting.

He reaches out to rest his hand over Dean’s briefly, covering it where it lies on the mattress between them. “It’s okay,” he says, making his voice reassuring to match the touch. “It’s nice. I can’t remember the last time someone noticed a tiny detail like that about me.”

Dean tucks his thumb over the top of Castiel’s hand before he can move it away, not holding him there but making it clear that he doesn’t want to lose the point of contact just yet. “It’s my job,” he points out with a chuckle. “I’m good at reading people.”

“Oh, yeah?” Castiel challenges, letting the hint of a tease colour his voice and his hand relax atop Dean’s. “What am I thinking right now?”

Dean’s expression turns mischievous, and he raises an eyebrow. “Hmm… you’re thinking about how good last night was, and how you wish we could do it again this morning.” He pauses for a few beats, then makes a show of chuckling and shaking his head. “Oh, wait, I think those are my thoughts.”

Castiel can’t help but roll his eyes, poking Dean fondly in the shoulder with his free hand. “Very funny,” he says, “and not entirely inaccurate.”

Joking aside, though, they do actually have work to do today—trying to recover a priceless amulet and possibly save a city from destruction, no less. Dean must see the sobering thought cross Castiel’s face, because his own expression falls just slightly, and he pulls his hand away again, tucking it beneath the covers. “Couldn’t wait until we’ve got some coffee in us to start thinking about the important shit, huh?” he says quietly.

Damn. Dean _is_ good at reading people.

“Sorry,” Castiel apologizes, giving Dean a tiny shrug. “I do think that we should get to the end of all this before we talk about…” He gestures vaguely in between them. “ _This_.”

The corners of Dean’s mouth pull down just slightly, even as he nods his agreement. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says with a sigh. “Let’s eat something and then sort out our plan.”

He pushes back the covers and rolls out of bed, and despite Castiel’s resolve to wait to examine his thoughts until after they’ve retrieved the amulet… the sight of Dean, naked and beautiful in the cool morning air, weakens his willpower just a little. He swallows thickly, and makes sure to avert his eyes until Dean has left the bedroom and he can hear the sound of the shower running through the thin walls.

Rolling onto his back, Castiel stares up at the ceiling for a moment, inhaling until his lungs feel full and then exhaling it all in one long sigh. _People are too complicated_ , he thinks to himself. _Objects are so much simpler_.

At least he hasn’t had any readings surfacing recently, his mind far too distracted to be focusing his psychometric powers on the things around him. A small blessing, but a blessing nonetheless.

He still makes sure to block his powers as he gets out of bed himself, pulling on his shirt and underwear from last night and wandering out to the kitchen while he waits for Dean to finish up in the shower. It’s not hard to scavenge the things he needs for coffee from around Dean’s kitchen, and by the time Dean emerges from the bathroom, freshly showered, Castiel has a full mug set aside on the counter, and is sipping slowly from his own.

There’s nothing but a towel wrapped around Dean’s hips, and he grins unabashedly as Castiel feels his cheeks heat, crossing the few steps to where his coffee is waiting and picking up the mug. “Thanks,” Dean says, grin fading to a smile as he sips at the hot liquid. “Feeling a bit better now?”

Coffee never fails to make Castiel feel better, so he nods, then rolls his head side to side. “I am, thank you, although I will feel best after a shower. I hope you left me some hot water,” he teases, letting the corners of his lips curve up into a smile around the edge of his mug.

Dean snorts. “I hope so too, for both of our sakes. C’mon, go shower, I’ll make breakfast, and then we can go track down this amulet.”

He makes a shooing motion at Castiel with his free hand, and Castiel is only too happy to oblige. He takes his coffee with him, finishing off the dregs as he closes the bathroom door behind himself and sets the empty mug down beside the sink.

When he moves to pull his shirt off, Castiel catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and pauses. His hair is a mess, sticking up in every possible direction, but there’s something more beneath the rumpled exterior that he can’t quite put his finger on.

The longer he stares at himself, the more he realises that he feels… _light_. Happy, in a way that he hasn’t for a long time, in a way that is brought about by companionship and laughter instead of fascinating books or a satisfying day at work.

“Huh,” he says quietly to himself, then turns away and starts the shower running.

Dean did indeed leave him some hot water, and Castiel makes sure to enjoy the few minutes of solitude and warmth. He gets the feeling that today is going to be a long, challenging day, and that day is going to properly begin once he walks back out that bathroom door.

Sue him if he wants to take as much time as he can to catch his breath before being plunged back into the crazy whirlpool that is Dean Winchester.

By the time he’s out of the shower and dressing himself properly, he feels much more put together—like a man who is ready to put his psychometric powers to use to find an amulet smuggler, rather than a man who had fallen into bed with his colleague-slash-employer last night.

He stares at himself in the mirror, then runs some cold water and splashes it gently over his face. _Get it together,_ he tells himself sternly, then fixes his collar, straightens his back, and makes his way back out into the apartment.

Dean is standing in the kitchen, now dressed in a shirt that he’s kept unbuttoned down to his sternum as he puts the finishing touches on two plates of eggs and bacon. The suspenders he’s wearing frame his shoulders perfectly, and Castiel’s resolve almost crumbles right then and there.

Luckily, he manages to pull himself together, and clears his throat as he makes his way over to where Dean is standing. “Smells good.”

“I hope it tastes good,” Dean responds with a smile, nudging Castiel’s plate towards him. He turns away to finish cooking up his own breakfast, and Castiel takes his plate to the table. He eats in silence, turning his own thoughts over in his head, until Dean sits down opposite him.

Whenever he glances up at Dean, Dean’s gaze is elsewhere, but as soon as Castiel looks back down at his food, he can feel Dean’s eyes burning into him.

Finally, once Castiel is halfway through his eggs, Dean clears his throat.

“So, uh… we just not gonna talk about last night? At all?” he asks, when Castiel meets his gaze. There’s a look behind his eyes that Castiel can’t decipher.

Castiel swallows, rubbing his thumb idly against the handle of his knife as he considers his words. “Like I said,” he tells Dean, gently but firmly, “there are more important things to deal with first.” He doesn’t want to have to unpack his feelings for Dean, much less confess them, right now.

Instead, he changes the subject. “So, what’s our plan for getting the amulet back?”

Dean holds his gaze for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes. Finally, he puts his last bite of food into his mouth, then pushes his plate aside and reaches for his notebook.

“The message said warehouse 4,” he points out, then spins the page around and shows Castiel the list of places he’s written underneath. “There’s a few of them that I know, but I think the one we want is this one.” He taps the last address with his finger, then flips the notebook shut again. “It’s down by the docks, so it’s a ways from here, but I think that’s the one we should check first.”

He has an excellent point, and Castiel nods. “That sounds good to me. Do you think it will be guarded?”

Dean frowns, looking down at the table and tapping his fingers thoughtfully. “It might be,” he mutters. “How comfortable are you with a gun?”

Even just the suggestion is enough to provoke a visceral response from Castiel. Touching that cold metal, feeling all those memories of pain and violence…

Castiel swallows down the bile rising in his throat and shakes his head. “No gun,” he whispers, and watches Dean’s expression change with his realisation.

“Fuck, of course, sorry,” he rushes to say, holding his hands up apologetically. “No gun. Hopefully they don’t think anyone will be onto them, so the amulet might just be well-hidden, not guarded. Even if it is, I promise I’ll keep you safe, okay?”

If it were anyone else, Castiel wouldn’t be going. He would return to the safety of his home, and for the rest of his life, he would wonder what became of Dean Winchester.

But Dean isn’t anyone else.

Castiel inhales, then exhales, steadying himself.

“Okay,” he says.

They’re really doing this.


	6. Chapter 6

The cab drops them off just up the road from the warehouse. Dean tips the driver generously, and together, they climb out.

“Where to now?” Castiel asks, looking around at the sprawling mess of warehouses. Not far from them, he can hear the sound of water and seabirds.

“This way,” Dean tells him, curling his fingers around Castiel’s wrist and pulling him onto the pavement. They start walking as Dean explains. “That there—” he says as he points, “is warehouse 11. Number 4 is just down this way a bit—c’mon, we don’t want to waste any more time.”

Castiel huffs to himself but picks up the pace, matching Dean stride for stride. It’s barely a few minutes before Dean is holding up a hand to stop him in his tracks, and Castiel finds himself looking at a giant _4_ painted onto the wall in front of him.

“Here we are,” Dean says—somewhat redundantly, Castiel thinks with a hint of amusement that seems out of place in this situation. “Stay with me, I’m going to find a way in. No matter how tempting it might be to look around, don’t leave my side, okay?”

Dean holds Castiel’s gaze, clearly trying to communicate the importance of his message, until Castiel nods and says, “Okay.”

Castiel sticks beside Dean as they make their way up to the warehouse, always a step to his right and half a step behind. It doesn’t take long for Dean to find an unlocked door, and he presses his hands against the metal, slowly pushing it open.

The door doesn’t creak, just swings open silently. Together, they step into the darkness, and wait for their eyes to adjust.

There are windows up high, dust-covered but still enough to let some sunlight in, and Castiel blinks as he eyes become accustomed to the light. Shapes start to form themselves in front of his eyes—stacks of shelves and piles of crates, laid out before them in what must form some kind of disorganised labyrinth.

“I’m sure the amulet’s around here somewhere,” Dean mutters as he moves forward. His gun is still holstered at his hip, but his fingers twitch over it. “Keep an eye out, we don’t want to miss it.”

Castiel makes sure to stick close by, but reaches out to touch walls, boxes, doors, trying to glean any kind of useful information from them. Mostly, he doesn’t get much—just the unhelpful comings and goings of faceless people.

As they near the heart of the warehouse, however, Castiel reaches out to touch a door in passing, almost on instinct. His fingertips trail over the wood, and he lets himself dive into the object’s history, just for a moment.

_The static of a voice over radio._

_The door opening, admitting several sets of boots._

_Bated breath, heavy silence, the anticipation of waiting._

“Dean!” is all Castiel manages to get out in warning before the door flies open, slamming against his shoulder and sending him reeling.

As he stumbles back, his feet catch on each other, and he falls against the concrete floor with a shout of pain. From there, he watches as the five guards who had been hiding inside the room come crowding out, their guns raised.

Dean is a good fighter, but he’s no match for five armed men. By the time Castiel has half-staggered to his feet, Dean has given one a bloody nose, but another guard strikes him in the temple with the handle of his pistol, and he drops, body gone limp.

“No!” Castiel shouts as he manages to fully push up off the ground—

And then his feet are swept out from under him, and he sees the ground rushing to meet him once more before everything goes dark.

~

Castiel comes to slowly.

His head is throbbing, protesting against the light as Castiel blinks, his eyelids like lead. The ground is hard underneath him, rough against his cheek, his shoulder, his hip, and he groans as he rolls over onto his back. His body aches, and for a moment, he doesn’t quite remember how he ended up here.

And then he blinks again, and it all comes rushing back to him.

The code.

Exploring the warehouse with Dean.

The guards he’d realised were there just a second too late.

“Fuck,” he rasps, and starts to struggle into a sitting position, pausing with a hand pressed against the ground to hold himself up while he waits for the room to stop spinning. Once it does, Castiel forces himself to set aside the lingering ache in his head, and instead takes stock of the situation.

The room he’s in is almost empty. He’s not sure where Dean and the guards have gone, but wherever it is, it can’t be good.

The only other thing he can see, illuminated by one of the dusty windows close to the ceiling, is a table, and a radio sitting perched atop it.

Castiel groans as he climbs to his feet, head swimming for a sickening second or two before everything settles again. Once he has his balance, he approaches the table, bending down to peer at the radio. It’s on, crackling quietly to itself.

It has to be here for a reason. It might be a trap, but having woken up on the ground with no Dean, no guards, and no amulet…

It’s a risk he has to take.

He presses the transmit button and leans towards the microphone. “Hello? Is anyone there? Over.”

The radio keeps crackling as Castiel takes his finger off the button and waits, pressing his palms flat against the wood of the table and trying to keep his breathing steady. For a few long seconds, nothing comes through.

And then there’s a voice.

“Well, hello. I was wondering how long it would take you to wake up, Mr. Novak.”

It’s a woman’s voice. Castiel isn’t sure who he’d been expecting to be behind the amulet robbery and Dean’s kidnapping, but this takes him by surprise.

“Who are you? How do you know my real name?”

The voice laughs, light and mocking. “My name is Abby. Abby Sands. And don’t be silly—everyone who’s anyone in our line of work knows how you are. The retired psychometric, haunted by his past. No one in the business thought you’d ever return, but I suppose all it took was a pretty face to convince you.”

Castiel clenches his jaw—her assessment isn’t far off, and it smarts. He keeps himself quiet as she continues to talk.

“We knew you were working with Winchester,” Abby says, with a smugness to her voice that makes Castiel want to reach through the radio and throttle her, “but another few hours, and it wouldn’t have mattered, because this city would be several feet underwater.”

She pauses, clearly at the end of her little spiel, and Castiel takes the opportunity to ask the question that is most important to him.

“You took Dean,” he grits out. “Where is he?”

“You don’t need to worry about him. Soon enough, he will be—what is the phrase? Sleeping in a watery grave?” She laughs cruelly, the sound grating on Castiel’s ears. “The tides have already started to rise, but you still have a choice. You can come and find me, and try to get the amulet back. By the time you manage that, though, Winchester will be underwater. Or you can save him, grab a boat, and survive, knowing that you were responsible for so many deaths and for the destruction of the greatest city in the world.” Her words turn sly, as though she knows that each one is tearing Castiel apart inside.

“Which will it be, Castiel? New York, or Dean Winchester?”

Castiel’s chest feels tight, and he forces himself to suck in a breath. Having his hands pressed against the table is the only thing keeping them from shaking—and keeping him from smashing this radio apart in fear and anger.

“Why are you doing this?” he growls into the receiver, voice resonating with the strength of his anger. “Why didn’t you just kill me?”

“Now where would the fun in that be? Your powers are too valuable to waste with a bullet—and besides, I’m truly curious as to what you will choose. My sources tell me that you and Winchester have become quite… _close_.” The tone of her voice makes it clear exactly what she knows, and Castiel curses himself. They should have suspected that they might have been watched, might have been followed.

“I wish you luck in finding him,” Abby tells him mockingly. “Over and out.”

And then the line goes dead.

That can’t be it—he doesn’t have enough clues as to where she is, or what she’s done with Dean. He keeps talking, keeps goading, trying desperately to get her to respond just one more time, but all he gets is static.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he chokes out, slamming his palm against the table.

_New York, or Dean Winchester?_

This is his chance to repent for all the cruelty and theft and _evil_ that he’d contributed to so many years ago. He can try to save all the people who will lose their lives as New York floods, but at what cost? He’s never felt for anyone else the way he feels about Dean, but Abby had made it clear that he doesn’t have time to save both him _and_ the city. Even now, the tides must be rising, the water steadily creeping towards thousands of oblivious people without any way to escape.

Castiel should be putting everything he has into finding Abby and getting the amulet back. Into saving New York.

But after last night… he knows what he feels in his heart, even if he can’t give a name to the feeling, not yet…

He can’t.

He has to find Dean.

Castiel casts his gaze around desperately, trying to find anything that he can use to figure out where the guards took Dean. Finally, his eyes land on the floor, on the dust kicked up in the scuffle.

He’s tried this before, but it’s rarely ever worked—pieces of ground have _so many_ memories to sift through that it’s almost impossible to find anything specific. But he has to try.

He crosses the few steps to where he’d seen Dean crumple and crouches down, pressing his palms flat against the floor and closing his eyes. If he wants to find anything useful, he needs to focus his powers, so he takes a deep breath, and gives it everything he has.

The concrete’s memories are half-formed and hazy, existing in such a number that it almost overwhelms Castiel. He grits his teeth and concentrates, trying to sift through them and cast aside the ones he doesn’t need. Usually, a project like this would take hours.

Right now, he has minutes, if not seconds.

He concentrates until his arms shake and he can feel his head starting to swim, but he’s narrowed it down now, he’s almost there…

And then, right before he loses the thread of his focus—

 _Dean’s limp body, carried between two guards. They drag him away, towards one of the doors on the far side of the room, and disappear through it_.

Castiel pulls his hands away, surfacing from his powers with a desperate gasp of air. He’s sweaty and trembling, but he knows. He can _feel_ Dean through his powers, a tug in his chest telling him which way to go. He staggers to his feet, gritting his teeth as the world spins, and forces his legs to travel in the direction of the door.

It feels as though everything is moving at half speed as he crosses the warehouse, and Castiel knows that using his powers like that took a dangerously large amount of his energy, but he didn’t have a choice. _Doesn’t_ have a choice. Dean is out there, and Castiel is his only hope.

He shoves open the door, cursing under his breath as he stumbles out into the light. The sun is setting now, casting long shadows out over the water, and the docks are unnaturally quiet. Without his powers, he would have no idea where Dean had been taken, nowhere to start looking.

But he can still feel Dean, that persistent tugging in his chest. Instead of leading him up the street and away from the water, it implores him to turn toward the docks.

And so that’s what he does.

He follows his chest, his _heart_ , down towards the water. It leads him along the pier, right to the very end, and as he stands on the edge, looking out over the ocean, his ribs feel as though they’re about to burst with the strength of the feeling pulsing within him.

“Dean!” he shouts, casting his voice into the wind that comes off the ocean and dances around him. “Dean, where are you?”

Castiel strains to make out any kind of response. His powers tell him that Dean is here, but he can’t see him…

Is he too late? Are his powers leading him towards Dean’s body, lying beneath the surface of the water?

“Dean!” he shouts again, more desperate this time.

And then he hears something.

It’s muffled, but it’s there—and it seems to be coming from beneath Castiel’s feet.

“Dean?” he calls again, but this time he’s listening for it, and he hears it again. When he lies down on the pier and peers over the edge—

His eyes lock with Dean’s.

Dean is tied to one of the poles supporting the pier, thick ropes encircling his chest and his legs. There’s a cloth between his teeth and tied around his head, keeping him from calling out properly, but the most alarming part is the water that is lapping at his chest and getting slowly but steadily higher.

“Oh no,” Castiel breathes, as Dean starts speaking into his gag with an urgency that tells Castiel whatever he’s trying to say, it’s probably important. But no matter what it is, it couldn’t possibly be more important than getting him free.

There’s a bone-deep exhaustion weighing Castiel down already, but he doesn’t hesitate. He climbs to his feet, pulls off his jacket and his shoes and tosses them aside, then looks down at the water. It’s so dark that it’s almost black, in the dying light of the dusk, and the waves are moving as if they’re angry. As if they’re _alive_.

He takes a deep breath, _hopes_ and holds it in his chest, then jumps into the sea.

The water is ice-cold. Castiel has to resist the urge to gasp with the shock of it, waiting until his head has broken the surface once more to rake in a shuddering breath. Dean is watching him and struggling against his bindings, and Castiel forces himself to lift his heavy limbs and swim closer.

The rope around Dean’s chest looks strong, and when Castiel tries to prise apart one of the knots, he finds that the seawater has made it impossibly difficult to get undone. “Shit,” he curses, pulling at it one more time for good measure.

Dean is struggling more now, wiggling against the rope as if trying to get Castiel’s attention. The cloth tied behind his head isn’t wet, so when Castiel braces himself against the post and reaches up to untie it, it comes off surprisingly quickly.

“You fucking idiot,” is the first thing Dean says. “Shoulda gone after the amulet. But since you’re here, there’s a knife tucked into my right sock. See if you can cut me free before this fucking water gets any higher.”

Even in the minute that Castiel has been struggling with the rope, the water has crept up another fraction of an inch over Dean’s chest. Castiel isn’t sure whether his blood goes cold from fear or from the iciness of the ocean, but either way, it spurs him into action.

He tucks and dives, feeling his way down Dean’s leg in a way that would be entirely inappropriate in any other public setting, trying to find the knife. It’s easy to feel, the shape of the sheath clearly defined beneath Castiel’s fingertips, and he tugs blindly at Dean’s sock until he gets the knife free.

When he reaches the surface once more, he allows himself a quick moment to get his breath back, then immediately sets to work sawing at the rope that binds Dean to the pole. “Hurry, Cas,” Dean urges as the rope around his chest slowly comes apart, and Castiel bites back the urge to snap at him that _yes, I know, I’m going as fast as I can_.

Finally, the rope comes loose, and as the pressure around Dean’s chest disappears, all the force that had been keeping him upright against the pole goes as well, and he pitches face-first into the sea. When he reappears, he’s spluttering, churning the water with his hands to keep himself upright.

“Knife,” he chokes out, taking it from Castiel’s hand as much as Castiel hands it to him. He shifts his grip on it, takes a breath, then disappears back under the water—in a much more controlled manner this time.

When his head breaks the surface once more, he’s swimming properly, treading water next to Castiel. “Thanks for saving me, Cas,” he says breathlessly, then gives him a quick, tight smile. “Now how about we go find us a power-hungry maniac and save New York, huh?”

Castiel can’t help but smile, feeling a tiny bubble of relief in his chest. “That sounds like an excellent idea.”

They find themselves a ladder a little ways down the pier and haul themselves up it, bedraggled and dripping with seawater. As Castiel reaches the top and sets his feet on solid land again, he sways, coming dangerously close to losing his balance as his exhaustion catches up with him once more.

Dean props him up with a hand on each shoulder, brows drawn into a concerned frown. “Cas, are you okay?”

Castiel waves him off and tries to stand on his own again. “I’m fine,” he grits out. “Just tired from finding you, but I’ll be okay. Do you have any idea where Abby—the woman—went?”

Dean’s gaze darkens. “You mean the one with the amulet? The men who tied me up were talking about her. Once they were done with me, they were supposed to join her on a boat so that they could head out to sea and be safe as New York floods. The tide’s rising quickly, we’ve gotta be fast if we’re going to stop her.”

A boat. Of course. Castiel swears under his breath, feeling their time ticking away. But he made his decision, he chose Dean, and it’s too late to regret it now. The only thing they can do is try to stop Abby before too much damage is done.

“Okay,” he says, trying to regain control of his emotions and get a grip on the situation. “I saw a boat moored on the next pier over, a fancy motorboat or something. Could you get it to run?”

Dean is already moving, half-supporting and half-dragging Castiel with him as he heads back down the pier towards land. “I broke into your house the first time we met, didn’t I?” He shoots Castiel a slightly strained grin. “Stealing a motorboat should be easy.”

Castiel thinks back to that day, when he had found Dean looking over his collection as though he belonged in Castiel’s house, as though he’d simply used his own key to pay a visit.

He’d never expected that they’d end up here… but he’s glad to have Dean by his side.

“I’m sure you can manage it,” he agrees, because right now, they need to have hope.

It doesn’t take long to find that boat that Castiel remembered seeing, and he convinces Dean to jump down and start figuring out how to make it go, instead of helping him down. He manages an exhausted, clumsy scramble down one of the pier poles, landing in the bottom of the boat with a _thud_ and a curse under his breath.

“You okay?” Dean asks, but to his credit, he doesn’t once look away from the handful of wires he’s managed to expose in the boat’s dash.

“Fine,” Castiel grits out, rubbing his elbow and leaning against the side of the boat. He’s achingly aware of the tide, waves rocking the boat as they come in, slightly higher with each one.

They’re running out of time.

Castiel listens to the knock of the waves against the boat and the sound of Dean muttering under his breath, trying not to count the passing seconds and failing miserably. Finally, after what seems like an eternity—

The boat sputters to life.

“Yes!” Dean shouts, closing the dash panel and rushing to unmoor them from the pier, then sliding himself into the driver’s seat. “You alright down there, Cas?”

Castiel waves his hand dismissively, letting his head rest back against the side of the boat. “I’ll be fine. Just go find her.”

Dean gives him a quick salute, then turns his attention back to the boat. There’s a moment of stillness—and then it shudders and leaps forward, coming to life beneath Dean’s hands. All of a sudden, they’re peeling away from the pier and turning out towards the sea.

“Hold on, Cas!” Dean shouts as he pushes the boat faster and faster until it’s leaping over the waves. Castiel is incredibly glad that he doesn’t get seasick as he braces his feet against the opposite side of the boat and tries to wrap his fingers around whatever seems to be the most stable object.

They keep driving away from the shore, and the wind begins to pick up, the waves growing taller and taller. Dean is white-knuckling the steering wheel, while Castiel has wedged himself into the boat as best he can. Ahead of them is a dark front of cloud, whipped into a frenzy by the amulet.

“Can you see the boat?” Castiel shouts over the wind, hoping that his words reach Dean even as the wind tries to tear them out of his mouth.

He sees Dean scan the horizon, lips pressed into a thin, grim line—and then his eyes go wide, and he lifts his hand to point. “There’s something over there!” he shouts back towards Castiel, who feels his heart leap against his ribs. Maybe they have a chance after all.

Dean pushes the boat impossibly faster, and Castiel swears as they go flying over the crest of a wave, smacking down into the water a second later. _Please let this boat hold together_ , he thinks in a moment of panic.

When he peeks his head over the side of the boat, each time they rise to the top of a wave, Castiel can see a yacht perched on the water, growing steadily closer. That has to be the one—no one else would be out here in such dangerous weather.

Their guess is confirmed when they crest the next wave, and a bullet pings off the body of the motorboat.

“Fuck!” Dean shouts, ducking down as low as he can while still being able to steer. He keeps one hand on the wheel, fumbling for his pistol with the other. He manages to retrieve it, then looks back towards the yacht, flinching as another bullet goes whizzing overhead.

Castiel feels his heart sink as Dean turns to look at him, indecision fading into determination.

“Cas, I need you to drive the boat. There’s no way I can shoot back if I have to concentrate on both. I know you’re exhausted, but… please. There’s no other way.”

He’d been expecting Dean to hand him the gun, but this… Dean had remembered that there’s no way he can touch it.

Dean _cares_.

Castiel nods, turning onto his hands and knees to crawl up towards the steering wheel as Dean slows their speed just enough for them to swap over safely. His limbs protest, but he doesn’t give them a choice.

“Good,” Dean murmurs as Castiel takes over the steering wheel, shoving away memories of the rich boat owner, then replaces Dean’s foot on the gas with his own. “Just keep going straight and fast. We need to get to them before it’s too late. And no matter what happens…” He squeezes Castiel’s shoulder, hand lingering for a second as the emotion behind his words sinks into Castiel’s soul. “Stay safe.”

There’s a lot unsaid in those two words.

 _You saved my life_.

_I don’t want you to get hurt._

_I couldn’t stand to lose you_.

Castiel just swallows past the lump in his throat and nods, then focuses on the boat and the waves as Dean braces himself against the side of the boat and clicks the safety off his pistol.

The next time they crest a wave, Dean peeks over the bow and fires off two shots even as bullets from the yacht go whizzing by, steady and calculated despite the wild water. “Got one,” he mutters as he crouches back down. “We’re almost there, Cas. We’ve got this.”

They keep going, Castiel taking them further into the waves and the wind while Dean squeezes off shots whenever he can, doing his best to discourage the guards on the yacht from shooting at them.

They’re just yards away from their goal when a bullet hits the bow of the boat, burrowing into the engine with a _bang_ that makes Castiel jump. Barely a second later, smoke starts to curl out of the cracks, and Castiel feels his blood run cold.

Dean notices it at the same time, because he gives up on shooting and instead presses his foot down over Castiel’s on the gas, trying to urge their little boat just a bit faster. “Almost there,” he shouts, even as the smoke gets thicker. They pull up against the side of the yacht, as far back as they can manage, and Dean grabs onto a loop of rope hanging off the side while steadying his gun in his other hand.

“Go, Cas!” he shouts, gesturing at the yacht. “I’ll cover you!”

Castiel doesn’t need to be told twice. He forces himself over to the side of the boat, reaching for the railing of the yacht to pull himself up. Dean fires a shot, then another, but Castiel doesn’t let himself focus on anything that’s not _getting the fuck off the motorboat_.

There’s another _bang_ from the engine, and then the next thing he knows, there are hands on his back and the momentum of another body bundling him up and over the railing.

Castiel hits the deck with his shoulder, and a second later, the motorboat explodes.

Winded, he rolls onto his back, looking up at Dean where he’s braced over him. He’s breathing hard, hair wet from the ocean water and the mist in the air that precludes the incoming storm, and there’s an intensity to his eyes that makes Castiel’s heart pound against his ribs.

He really wants to kiss Dean right now, but he will have to settle for just knowing that he’s alive and in one piece.

He prays to every possible god that both of them stay that way.

“Are you okay?” Dean asks as he pushes himself back onto his heels, giving Castiel space to sit up and do a quick bodily inventory. All parts seem to still be attached and functioning, even if they feel like they’re made of lead.

“I’m okay,” he says with a quick nod, then starts struggling to his feet. “Come on, we need to find Abby before it’s too late.”

Dean helps Castiel up with a hand on his elbow until he’s standing upright, then quickly checks over his gun. “I managed to take out a few guards, so there shouldn’t be many left. Stay behind me, alright?”

“Alright.” Castiel’s heart is going jackhammer-fast, and he curls his shaking hands into fists as he positions himself behind Dean. _Get the amulet, save lives… stay safe_.

Dean begins to advance along the deck, Castiel making sure to always stay just a step behind him. They pass the body of a guard, blood pooling on the deck, and Castiel has to remind himself _it was us or them_ as he steps over it, stomach churning.

As they reach the end of the deck where it opens up to the bow, Dean sucks in a sharp breath and swivels his gun, aiming it at something that Castiel can’t yet see. He takes another step, tucking himself in behind Dean, and the full scene comes into view.

There’s a woman standing at the bow of the boat, red hair and red cloak billowing in the wind as she holds a large pendant up to the sky. A few feet to their left, there’s another guard, clearly surprised by their appearance. After hearing their boat explode, he must have thought that they hadn’t survived—it must be a nasty surprise to find out that they’re still alive.

In his peripheral vision, Castiel sees Dean shift his focus, gun moving to point towards the guard. He squeezes off a single shot, and the guard is knocked back, half-spinning away with the force of the shot as he crumples to the deck.

Now it’s just them and Abby.

She turns at the sound of the gunshot, and her eyes widen at the sight of them, both drenched by the sea and the rain, Castiel barefoot and Dean sporting a nasty bruise from where he was knocked out. Dean swivels to point the gun at her, and Castiel opens his mouth to tell her _it’s over_ —

When a man appears from behind them and grabs hold of Dean.

One last guard, who must have been driving the yacht, and who is now tackling Dean to the deck. The gun skitters away as Dean loses his grip on it, coming dangerously close to disappearing over the edge in front of Castiel, but stopping just shy.

Dean grapples with the guard, trying to land a punch, but he’s pinned against the deck and has to focus on defending himself instead of going on the offensive. Castiel finds himself caught.

Dean and the guard, the gun, or Abby.

A laugh draws his attention to Abby, who is still brandishing the amulet.

Still intent on destroying New York.

“I have to say,” she shouts over the wind and the rain, “I’m impressed! I didn’t think the two of you would even be able to find me, let alone make it all the way out to try and stop me. It’s a shame you’ll fall at the very last hurdle, but you tried. It’s _cute_.”

She lifts her other hand, and the amulet glows an even brighter blue. On the port side of the boat, the water begins to swell and rise, forming into a tidal wave that bears down on them with frightening speed. Castiel feels himself freeze as he stares it down.

“The amulet will keep me safe!” Abby tells him, and from the tone in her voice, she thinks that she’s won. “But unfortunately the rest of you won’t be so lucky.”

In the corner of his eye, Castiel sees the guard freeze, as though he’s just realised how expendable he is to her—but by that point, it’s too late.

“Cas!” Dean screams over the storm, still struggling to get out from under the guard. “Cas, do something!”

Everything seems to slow as Castiel weighs his options.

Abby is too far away. Dean is too far away. By the time he can rush her or help Dean, the wave will be upon them. Neither of those options will work.

But there’s one action that will.

Bracing himself and shoving up as many mental walls as he possibly can, Castiel lunges for the gun.

His fingers close around the grip of the gun, and as soon as his skin touches it, he’s thrown into the gun’s memories. He’s spent so many years honing his skills that he can usually block them or choose which memories to view, but there’s no way he can hold these back. There are too many, and they’re too powerful.

_Red, black, gunpowder lingering in the air._

_Last words, last thoughts, blending together into an anguished cacophony._

_There are so many faces. So much blood._

_The feeling of death and destruction sinks into Castiel’s bones, until he feels as though he’ll never be free of it._

Castiel tries to get a grip on himself. Tries to regain control of his own mind. If he can’t do this, then everything they have worked for is lost. New York will be destroyed. Dean will die.

 _Dean_.

Castiel grits his teeth, strengthens his will, and holds onto that thought. It had helped him the last time he needed to save Dean—he just has to pray that it will help him now.

So he thinks of Dean. Of the first time they’d met, of that night in the bar, of warm smiles shared in Dean’s apartment and kisses stolen in the night.

He thinks of Dean and, little by little, he claws his way back to reality. The last of the gun’s memories— _bloodpaindeathgunpowder_ —clings to him, as though it doesn’t want to let him go, but eventually it has no choice but to relinquish him from its grasp, and Castiel returns to the surface with bursting lungs.

When he comes back to reality, it’s clear that barely a second has passed. The wave is still bearing down on them, Dean is still shouting his name, Abby is still watching him with a look of triumph that he sees morph into fear as if in slow motion.

Castiel tightens his grip on the gun and levels it at Abby.

He watches as her eyes widen, as her chest rises with an intake of breath, as she starts to raise her free hand.

He inhales, steadies his grip, exhales…

Then aims the gun half a foot to the right and pulls the trigger.

The bullet goes cleanly through the amulet, shattering it into pieces that fall uselessly onto the deck or into the ocean. There’s a roaring in Castiel’s ears, punctuated with a high-pitched ringing that he barely realises is the sound of Abby screaming.

But the amulet is gone. The tidal wave flattens out before their very eyes, becoming a swell that the yacht rocks up and over.

Castiel lets his fingers open, and as the gun falls to the deck, so does he.


	7. epilogue

When Castiel wakes, Dean is right by his side.

Everything is a little blurry as he comes to, and he blinks against the light, having grown accustomed to the darkness of his own eyelids for so long. Slowly, the world begins to reshape in front of him, and he realises that he’s lying in his own bed. In front of him is the familiar window with its white curtains, the dresser that belonged to the previous tenant and is too heavy to get down the stairs, and—

And Dean, curled up in the armchair that is usually across the other side of the room, tucked up in a way that _must_ be uncomfortable given how tall he is compared to the size of the chair.

Castiel takes a moment to just watch him, from the gentle rise and fall of his chest to the tired bags under his eyes. He looks exhausted—almost exhausted as Castiel had been, and he wonders how long he’s been asleep for. The last thing he remembers is the boat, and judging by the stubble that’s appeared on Dean’s face since the last time he saw him, he’s been out for more than just a few hours.

Even so, he’s content to lie here for a little while longer, as his body takes the time to process that it’s no longer running on empty. He watches Dean, turning his thoughts over in his head, until Dean stirs and his eyes slowly blink open.

As soon as he sees that Castiel is watching him he startles upright, immediately fully awake. “Cas!” he exclaims, then winces and lowers his voice. “Sorry, I—you’re awake! How do you feel?”

Castiel slowly pulls himself up into a sitting position, waving Dean away as he tries to help. “I feel fine,” he insists, giving Dean a reassuring smile. “Really. What happened after I—did I pass out?”

“You did.” Dean settles on the edge of the bed, fingers fidgeting in his lap as though he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “Scared the shit out of me, honestly. I tied up Abby and the guard, then radioed one of my Men of Letters contacts to come get us. The doctor said you just needed to rest, but…” Dean drags his fingers through his hair, then gives Castiel a thin smile. “Well, it was tough. I was really worried. But I’m glad you’re okay now.”

Guilt sinks inside Castiel’s gut, and he shuffles a little closer, reaching out to take one of Dean’s hands and stop his restless fidgeting. “I’m glad I’m okay too,” he says quietly, waiting until Dean makes eye contact with him to give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Thank you for staying with me. It means a lot.”

Dean’s green eyes don’t leave Castiel’s, but they do flick back and forth, as though there’s an answer hiding within. His throat bobs as he swallows, and for a few long seconds, the silence draws out between them.

“Cas,” Dean says finally, and his voice is a quiet whisper. “You said… once this was over…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Doesn’t need to.

Castiel hasn’t thought about it since that night, but even then, he’d known what his answer would be.

And that’s why he leans forward, closes the distance between them, and gently presses his lips against Dean’s.

He feels Dean’s hand twitch, almost as if in surprise, and then he settles, leaning into the kiss.

They stay like that for a while, trading gentle kisses in the quiet of Castiel’s bedroom, until his stomach growls loud enough to make them both chuckle. “Let’s get you some food,” Dean murmurs, with a grin that sets alight something in Castiel’s soul.

They make their way downstairs as the sun is setting, burnished-bronze light filtering through the windows and turning everything they touch to gold. In the kitchen, Castiel sits at the table and watches Dean move around like he belongs there.

Once the last remnants of sleep have stopped clinging to Castiel’s bones, he insists on helping Dean cook, shutting him up with a kiss every time he suggests that Castiel sit back down. It’s not long before Dean realises what he’s up to, but merely accepts the kisses with a sigh of resignation and a smile.

All in all, it’s a quiet evening—which, honestly, Castiel is fine with after all the excitement of their fight with Abby. Getting to talk to and spend time with Dean _without_ the pressure of saving the world looming over their heads is wonderful, and Castiel doesn’t doubt for a second that he’s made the wrong decision in letting Dean into his life.

Once they’ve eaten, they move to the sitting room, where Castiel tucks himself up in one of the armchairs and watches with amusement as Dean picks over the room like a child excited by his favourite toys. There is no shortage of unique books or magical artifacts in this house—most of them harmless but all of them rare and intriguing—and for Dean, it must be like Christmas.

Eventually, though, he stumbles upon the phonograph.

Castiel watches fondly as Dean picks through Castiel’s meagre selection of records, eventually selecting one and sliding it into place. The sounds of music spiral through the air as the record begins to spin, and while it’s nowhere near as upbeat or electrifying as the music they’d heard at the speakeasy, Dean still holds his hand out towards Castiel.

“Dance with me?”

He should say no—he’s never properly danced with someone, and Dean is so good at it that Castiel is sure he’ll just embarrass himself. But there’s something in Dean’s eyes that encourages him, and so he tries not to overthink it as he lifts himself off the couch and makes his way over.

The music surrounds them as Castiel fits himself carefully against Dean, warm hands and gentle melody guiding him into place. It’s not so much a dance as it is a gentle sway, accompanied by the occasional step-shuffle, but Castiel is more than content with that. This close to Dean, in the comfort of his own house, with the warm crackle of the song in the background…

Castiel is not the kind of person to assign perfection to anything, but this?

This is perfect.

And as Dean half-turns him and leans down to steal a kiss, lips curled into a gentle, playful smile, Castiel can’t help but feel like something in his life has finally fallen into place.

Like this is what he’s been missing.

Like he’s finally found _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> Dean moves in with Cas, Cas eventually joins the Men of Letters and continues helping to return magical artifacts to their place of belonging or to safe housing within the Men of Letters' bunkers. They live happily ever after <3
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please leave a kudos and/or comment! 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/), and subscribe to me on ao3 [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/) <3
> 
> Also! If you are a fan of Destiel, and are looking for a place where like-minded Dean and Cas lovers congregate, the 18+ [Profound Bond discord server](https://discord.gg/profoundbond)! It's a fantastic place, and we would love to have you :)


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